Songs We've Never Heard
by Reigning Rats
Summary: Searching for a way out, America's just doing what he thinks will help, even as everyone else flounders to save their falling friend from an end they all see coming. Can they reach him in time? Rated for dark themes; main RusAm with some PrusAme, USUKUS.
1. Vitamin R

This had become a ritual of sorts for him. The forlorn suit laid scattered across his apartment. His pants were flung over the tv, button up on the counter top. There was a tie looped around a lamp shade and coat on the floor. Shined leather gleamed from beneath the couch where his shoes had been abandoned. America stood, baggy attire, bare feet and all, just outside his window on the fire escape. The air was cool, dense, filled with smog and smoke. His mouth tasted like copper and industry, like sulfur and steel. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

There wasn't time to think. Thinking wasn't part of the ceremony. Musings were best left to other times, other places. This was now; this was what it all became.

America went on auto pilot as he swung on the ladder at the end of the escape. He quickly scaled the rusting steps, uncaring as to their stability. The uneven metal threatened to bite through the flesh of his feet but his mind neither registered the danger nor cared. This was now; this was what he did. He wanted the fear, needed it, to deal with all the contradictions building in his chest.

This.

This would give him the fear.

He reached the roof of his apartment building, toes dangling just over the ledge as he leaned over and looked to the alley way below. An inky darkness perched between the buildings, swaying with the coming and goings of headlights and fluttering moonlight. To him, it looked like a beast ready to pounce, ready to devour whatever lay ahead and feel no remorse. The image of an an all engulfing darkness took over his mind and adrenaline surged. His toes curled on the edge, loose concrete nipping at the hardened flesh.

The air burned his lungs as he inhaled, veins on fire. The muscles in his body seized for a moment as his arms swung back and legs bent at the knee. His face was vacant of everything, shadows dancing across the dark pools of his eyes as he jumped forward. A gust roared past him, only a second, but enough to knock him back as his heels barely cleared the ledge of the new building. A hammering heart beat madly in his chest.

America didn't need time to think. This was a practiced art, a step-by-step process he had long ago perfected and become comfortable with. It was an instinct now, something he needed to do after finishing all his official business. If the process failed to be completed every night, sleep would not come, his stomach would churn, and the things never felt right. In the loneliness of night, America found a way to escape the role of follower as he led his own path and ignored the remnants of screaming fits and panic from the day's meetings, phone calls, paperwork, world.

This was his world, a special place of his own design, the key to never coping and never caring. This arose from an intense need, a burning yearning, to find a point. The thought 'What's the point?' had been burning into his skull constantly and leaving him restless and anxious. So, he did what anyone would do: created a world all his own. Where his boss couldn't order him around, aids couldn't lay mountains of paperwork on his desk, and the other nations couldn't openly, or otherwise, express their bitterness to him.

Now wasn't the time for thinking. Now was a time for cleansing.

He took one step, wind whipping around him, then another and another. With each stride, legs and arms moving ever increasingly swifter, he neared the opposite edge of the building. The gap between these two was larger, he knew. A running start was the best bet to get him across. And run America did. His arms pumped wildly as his feet pressed against the gravel forcefully. A few times, a loss of momentum threatened his leap of faith as his feet lost purchase on the unsteady ground below. It only increased his thrill, cleared his mind, and made the experience all that more intoxicating as he pressed from the ledge and sailed.

The clouds parted overhead and showed the mask of the moon glaring out, spilling light across the building tops. He was alone in this section of town. Long ago everyone had laid down to rest, letting their minds recharge as they prepared for another day of frenzied American life: get it done, get it done, get it done faster.

His lips curled upward, exposing teeth and gums as he grinned widely. There was a shine in his eyes as his hair was pushed away from his face and casual clothing billowed behind him. The navy of his sweatshirt was but a blur, the gray of his sweatpants blending seamlessly with the tall, unremarkable buildings serving as a back drop for his late night antics. The gold of his skin glittered somberly, coating him in an unearthly ethereal glow.

An eagle taking wing.

A prisoner escaping capture.

The slave being consumed by devotion over and over again, never questioning the transparent pull of the duties he abided by.

America had become a slave to this. This insanity, this outlet. Over and over and over and painfully, agonizingly over again. In the daylight, strings protruded from his limbs and dictated his every move as he slipped into the role of the United States of America. A puppet mastered only by his own obligations from centuries of editing and revision. In the twilight of night, the strings once guiding him snapped and a freedom he hadn't known came back. All encompassing, all consuming. He was a slave to that freedom even as it consumed him and neared obsession.

Over and over.

A slave.

The things he tried to stray away from ideologically: repetition and servitude.

The things he now lived for.

His feet made a sick slapping noise as they landed onto the smoother surface of the next roof top. The pain was comforting but a mute sensation as his heart skittered and jostled in his chest while his lungs tirelessly worked to bring in more oxygen, to breath. His brain buzzed, hazy, eyes unfocused as he began running once more, leaping again with a great swing of his body as it arched and bowed.

He was twenty five stories up. One misstep and he would be out of commission for months upon months. Yet, he couldn't stop. Another sprint, another jump, another building as his feet landed and knees threatened to buckle. Over and over he gave himself over to this wild desire, need. A slave to it and nothing else.

There was contentment in this.

Whatever this really was.

* * *

**A/N: Bet some of you may be wondering, 'Hm, why hasn't this bloke updated the other things he has going?' Answer, I'm a right real lazy lout. So, just putting that out there. Anyway, this will be a multi-chapter work, there may be random pairings strewn about, it will revolve primarily around America, and the themes should be consistently quite dark. I'm talking drug use, sex, self harm maybe, violence, twisted thinking, all that good, fun stuff. I'll try to keep everyone in character as well as I can, despite the story content. If that hasn't deterred you, I may as well say how I'm writing this.**

**I put my iTunes on shuffle. There you go. Whatever song comes up, that's what I base the chapter off. It's a challenge of sorts to myself as a reader but worry not! I have a multitude of different types of music, so there should be a great variety. That's why I can't say for sure if there will be any pairings, I don't know how the story is going to go because I don't know what song will come up. Anyway, yea, you probably don't care. This one is Vitamin R (Leading Us Along) by Chevelle. The title is a line from Very Busy People by The ****Limousines; the song has nothing to do with the over all story. Anywayanyway, short chapter and this author's note is getting long. Read, review, what have you.**


	2. The Plot To Bomb The Panhandle

He would be damned to admit it, but some days he just felt like letting go. Especially considering the current state of affairs. It was also unlike anything he had ever found himself in. Two wars were being raged overseas, officially the longest lasting wars in his history. A double dip recession loomed on the horizon, coming fast and unrelenting. The others berated him, disliked him, hated him. The divides of freedom were tearing his people apart and his government was failing the people it was sworn to protect. What was he supposed to feel?

If he ever voiced that urge to let go he knew what the others would say. It was easy enough to guess. There would be _I've been through far worse_s, _This is nothing_s, and _You're being immature_s. In a game of place the blame, the finger always landed on him and all the while he was expected to stand tall, smile, laugh, be the average idiot everyone had gotten used to over the centuries. Enough was enough. America had to put his foot down sometime, even if it wasn't by revealing the amassed feelings of regret, guilt, and weakness.

The presentation was over and all he could look forward to was roof jumping. Even in the relatively unfamiliar city of Berlin, he was sure he could find ways to traverse the cityscape. He always did. First things were first though; now was the questions and answers section. America always bitterly delighted in calling it trash America time.

"I'm glad to see you're taking this more seriously," Germany relented. The admission looked like it pained him.

America had to bite his lip to keep from snorting. The global warming adaption and prevention plan wasn't his brain child. The idea was a product of some big shots called into a room at the White House to discuss, argue, and otherwise clop together something half way decent and vague enough to seem plausible.

"I still think it's a bloody _awful _idea."

England.

He couldn't help the bright smile that overtook his features. Of course England would put his two cents in, regardless if America wanted to really hear it or not. The nation with the apparent awful idea shrugged carelessly, turning his attention to Italy.

"I think it's a great idea, ve~!"

Italy was too lovable not to like. The way he cocked his head and sat forward like an eager infant made America laugh as he thanked the man and readied himself for the harsher of comments to come. Right on cue, an uproar began. The voices became a cloud swarming within America's skull as hell broke loose and not even Switzerland's violent cries for order could quell it. There were insults; there were disagreements. All were directed at him.

Enough was enough.

In one fluid motion, mouth still curved upward and one hand shoved deep into the comfort blanket the others called his bomber jacket, America flipped the room the bird. Hand held high, he flashed the one finger salute. There was silence and then the outrage amplified. Apparently, he gesture wasn't quite appreciated by any of the others. He certainly thought it was appropriate.

"You guys seriously need to calm down," America chuckled, lifting his head.

Whatever order there had been was faithfully left behind. He could see no reason to stick around any longer. The sun had already set and the meeting had gone on for long enough. The nighttime ritual was calling to him and America just couldn't say no. He never could.

The nation turned his back on the room and fled with a few fluid strides. The muscles within his legs began to burn, heart fluttering, as he anticipated the revival soon to come while he leapt through the air and threw caution to the ever blowing wind that never ceased attempting to knock him down a few flights. Literally.

America didn't bother to look back. In all honesty, he really couldn't have cared less. If no one had anything relatively constructive to say about his presentation, or at least if no one had the decency _not_ to shamelessly degrade him, there was no point in staying. He had always appreciated their judgment to some extent. After all, so many of the others were older, wiser, had seen more. There was this funny thing about a nation's personification though: can't trust a word they say. Self-interest always trumped whatever personal connection any of them shared.

Those sorts of thoughts refused to leave him. They nagged and nagged till his head was pounding just as fiercely as his heart. The jumping had made him feel alive for the first half hour, but now his mind was collapsing within itself and falling back into better left unsaid trains of thought. Readying himself for another jump, legs working furiously, America let a rather sardonic thought drift through his mind.

_They all hate me._

His feet pushed from the ledge, thrust shifted up and out as he attempted to clear the six foot gap and four foot rise. Anyone else would be crazy to do what he was doing. Back in New York, the routine had been flawless and paths well worn. This was new terrain, this was uncertainty and he still wasn't sure just as to what _this_ really boiled down to. Over the past few weeks, he had guessed it was a need for release, a desire for an outlet.

Whatever _this_ was, the usually absent thoughts had ruined it. At the edge his foot had slipped and America found himself falling short. His legs had misfired and now he wasn't going to be able to make the leap. He was at least thirty stories up.

Fingers groped blindly in the darkness to try and find purchase along the building's surface. Somehow, by some miracle, he found his hand tightly clasping something decidedly not concrete and definitely cursing. Frightened not for having almost fallen from such a height but for being caught, America looked up and found his savior silhouetted in black. That voice was unmistakable.

"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing, prick?"

Relief and horror washed over America as he swung his other arm up to grip the building ledge. He allowed himself to be partially hauled up over the side. Once out of harm's way, he straightened up and smoothed out the crinkles of his sweatshirt. The night air whipped around him, unforgiving and biting. Were there enough light, he was sure the flush in his cheeks would be readily apparent. As it were, the city was cloaked in a thick layer of foreboding night even as stragglers and night owls alike moved about on the streets below.

"Nothing, just thought it would be fun," America answered, looking up. He had left Texas at home, no longer needing them quite as desperately as he once had. "You know."

England crossed his arms, standing tall and straight as his eyes seethed disbelief, "Actually, I haven't the faintest. Stop lying. I know you've been doing this for a while."

The comment took a moment to process and it sent shudders of discomfort through his body, but America still laughed and smiled, "Geeze, way to be a creep then, England. Seriously, been watching me with binoculars or something?"

The other man bristled at the comment, sputtering from indignation as he reeled back and looked to the structures across the road. "No! You're just predictable."

"Then I'll never be a liar."

It was England's turn to pause for a moment.

"And you're always so two-faced."

"America!" A rise of haughty pride rose up within England as his arms unfolded and tensed at his sides. Was this really happening? "Git! Don't just say things like that."

He didn't want to say those sorts of things. Really, America didn't. His ritual had been disturbed though. No, it had _failed_. The meeting had worn away at him, the latest popularity polls had eaten away at him, the news was just too much for him. For his habitual cleaning, his daily rebirth and revival. Nothing felt right. His stomach was already beginning to ache and his head still hammered with an unrelenting and inhuman force. America didn't want to say those things and he didn't want to say this, but the anger rose up and spilled over.

"You know what? All of you will get what's coming to you. You're all blind because of your own self-interests."

"America-"

"I'm not some fucking game. I'm not so easily beat. You can't just keep pulling my strings and make me your bitch. Seriously."

Tension settled into the quiet between them, meshing with the muted din below. America met England's gaze, eyes wide and unwavering and corners of his lips forevermore slanted heavenward. England was glaring, prideful as always and unwilling to back down or take such disrespect and vulgarity from his ex-charge. He expected England's next words, had almost rehearsed them in his mind. Somehow, he always knew the day would come but had always prayed it wouldn't. Whatever God he had gotten on his knees for was obviously false and in that moment, as England opened his mouth to speak, America found himself letting go of whatever remnants of religion he had still clung to.

"I've been thinking about this mess you've made and I can't _believe_ I've stayed with your sorry ass so long."

The words hurt but America kept himself from recoiling. After all, there was no physical contact. The severing of emotional ties shouldn't manifest, couldn't manifest. He wouldn't allow it. That was weakness and it alone was his to wallow in.

"I've been so _goddamn_ unhappy but stayed. Where did I even go wrong with you? You know what, you ungrateful _twat_-"

Here England paused and pressed a finger to America's chest, suddenly much closer and much more livid as the rage and discontent built. The economic woes were wearing on everyone, England was not immune, and the tethers of his patience and tolerance had already been snapped. The floodgates were open and neither he nor America were privy to stop the flow.

"I'm getting out of this, this _special relationship_."

The nation pulled back his finger as if it had been scalded. He glared down at the cement of the roof top as he turned his back and shuffled back to the door just a few feet off. His hand hovered of the handle but he didn't bother turning around as he finished the thought with a venomous bite.

"I'm leaving this behind. _We_ are."

He left then, not once glancing back.

And America watched impassively. It was like he was the unwilling witness to the drama of someone else's life. Like he wasn't America, he wasn't a nation, he was the embodiment of nothing and just a nameless onlooker. There was still some small sliver of himself that was rooted within his body, an actual participant in the whole ideal. That section was screaming that this was goodbye between he and England for whatever length of time.

_Maybe for a lifetime._

He tried to squash the thought but found himself unable. The notion had sprung from nowhere. England and he fought nearly constantly. Getting angry at one another, saying a few spiteful things, and then parting ways for a few weeks or months was nothing new. It happened all the time, common occurrence, nothing special. Somehow, this time just felt different. He couldn't place the reasoning behind it. He partly chalked it up to everything just piling up and up and up till it felt like all the bullshit surrounding him was being shoved into his lungs, suffocating him. Like all the hateful words had swelled his tongue, leaving him speechless. Like all the heartache and headache and difficulties were weighing down on his mind, causing a complete conscious fallout even as he still grinned and swiped a shaking hand through his unruly tresses.

In that moment, the depression lingered but an uprising of rebellious arrogance reared up. _England's just a bitch. I'll bring the noise _became his new mantra. America had a plan.

He went to a ladder at the side of the building and let himself slide down. It led to an unremarkable looking alley, thick with grime and trash. Barefoot, America made his way through the streets of Berlin and approached downtown, easy going smile still plastered on his face as a little hop entered his step. His plan almost got derailed as he passed by a burger stand, _almost_. It took all his resolve to set his sights back on the increasingly seedy streets before him.

It didn't take long; he hadn't thought it really would. At first, he had thought his absent mindedness would kill his plan right then, but fishing through the deep pocket of his cargo pants, America pulled out his wallet. He handed over a fistful of cash, uncaring as to the amount, and took the offered bag held out to him. Success was the only thing on his mind while he made his way back to his hotel room. The bag settled like a lead weight in the pocket of his sweatshirt but it amounted to only another minor detail he couldn't find the will to care about.

Along the way, America hummed one of the many pop songs playing back home while his head bobbed side to side.

The giddiness went unhampered by the devastation coiling around in his chest as America opened the door to his room. A bag went sailing onto the bed as he tugged off the sweatshirt and tossed it onto his luggage bag. The cool of the room's AC washed over his bare chest as he turned side to side, listening to the disks in his spine pop, before he went to the bed, grabbed the back, and pushed open the doors to the balcony. One quick look around, and it seemed no one within viewing distance was out.

With careful fluidity, America opened up the little baggy and poured some of the contents onto the balcony table. He took up his room key and put the coke into three separate lines. The powder seemed to emit its own light against the glass table top.

_Strike one, two, three._

_You're out._

The thought made him laugh as he set aside the rest of his downtown harvest and card key. Reaching into his pocket once more he pulled out another bill and rolled it, paying little mind to most of the nagging thoughts aching in his skull. They were saying this was a bad idea, that he didn't know what he was getting into. That this was melodramatic.

"I'm America, I'm always melodramatic," he answered himself.

Bending forward, he snorted the first line before sitting back once more and rubbing at the now burning nostril. It hurt, it hurt like a bitch, but he wanted to forget everything, forget England. Forget himself.

"Yea, forget myself," he mused, grinning.

He leaned forward and snorted the next line before repeating the process and a few seconds later clearing the table.

At times, he wished he could turn back time to undo all the mistakes he had made. That way, he wouldn't be in this position. The weight of responsibility would be lifted from his shoulders and he would be able to breathe once more. The person he had become could just disappear; he would have his edge back. He wanted to be powerful, idealistic, looked up to America once more. To be that man again, that man overflowing with confidence and goodwill and friendliness, would fill him up so completely he was sure he would get lost in the tide of reawakening and joy. Then again, maybe those thoughts were the product of the drugs coursing through his veins. America laughed; he wasn't sure anymore.

Reaching down, the nation pulled the bag and card back up as he spilled out another three lines. A light popped on from behind him and he could hear the creak of weary hinges as the balcony doors of the room next to his open. Right then, America couldn't quite remember just who was next door. Smiling, he realized he didn't care as he bent over and snorted another line. The breeze caressed his hunched back, comforting and maternal in his drugged state.

His mind kept asking him _Just what are you doing? _Because surely, now, his mind was its own person, its own entity. At least, part of it seemed like it. America silently answered the mental question, giving the reasoning that he had nothing better to do, couldn't see things straight anymore, that he wasn't above the human urges everyone else felt.

Another line was snorted.

Leaning back, America allowed himself to recall the last century, dreamy look and dopey smile splayed across his face. Things certainly had become a mess, a _huge_ mess. He had stayed on the same destructive path too, unable to diverge from it. Now he was just utterly unhappy and, try as he might, he couldn't come up with an exact point at which he had gone so wrong and wandered down into the pits of self-destructive behaviors. All he really knew was that he needed to get out of his mind, just grab the handle, leave everything behind, and say goodbye to it for a lifetime and a half.

America finished his last line and shoved the bill back into his pocket. When he stood, his legs shook and hands skittered through the air as he reached for the balcony edge. Glancing over, he offered a wave and smile to Russia even as his body sprang to life, shaking and warming and just _letting go_. Everything was wound so tight, he could feel his soul lifting up out of his body, completely removed, and it felt so _freeing._

Freedom.

He _loved_ freedom.

With an unsteady everything, America grabbed the bottom of the balcony above and lifted one leg then the next. He was standing on the edge, clutching at the metal framing as his toes curled around the lip of the wrought iron under his feet. Russia was saying something but the words fell on deaf ears as America looked back at the bag sitting under the table. He was sure Russia couldn't see it. The snorting could be written off as nasal congestion. Everything was already sorted out as he looked back to the city lights ahead. Funny how his one true friend was turning out to be cocaine because, so far, the wonderful little powder was doing nothing wrong.

Crouching down, America got low. He rested his arms on his knees even as he wobbled dangerously in the light breeze. The drop really wasn't that bad. He had certainly soared over ones much higher. Maybe a few broken bones, a little internal bleeding. The position was comfortable though, _he_ was comfortable. It had been so long since he just felt wordlessly and listlessly happy.

"Least now I know who my friends are," he laughed, glancing back at the bag once more before turning his attention to Russia. His eyes were glazed, body shaking almost violently as he clutched at the ledge with his toes. "Hey, buddy, I'm never going home. Berlin is pretty chill."

After all, that's where he found his new friend.

* * *

**A/N: The first chapter was so pitifully short I decided to go more in depth involving lyric usage to help make chapters longer. Less conceptual and the like. A lot of the dialog is actually direct lyrics or paraphrasing of lyrics. It's the track A Plot To Bomb The Panhandle by A Day To Remember. Don't look at me, it's just what iTunes spewed out next on shuffle. After that was Dota by Basshunter and I'm _so_ glad I didn't continue on to writing chapter 3. God, using Dota would be difficult. But, anyway. Sad chapter is sad, don't do coke. Take it from a person who knows, it fucks you over. Effects are slightly tweaked for story purposes. Aaaand, that's all I got. Read, review, do the hokie pokie.**


	3. Please Don't Stop the Music

Things hadn't gone quite like he had hoped after addressing Russia the night before. America had thought his placement on the balcony was just fine and dandy but apparently his new friend didn't think so. Russia had come over, since America had failed to fully close his door, and tugged him off the railing. There was some comment about him burning up, something else and...something. America couldn't really recall the night before.

He did remember explaining the odd noises. Paired with a fever and runny nose, the lie had gone over well. After Russia had escorted him to bed with a heavy hand clasping America's upper arm, both nations bid each other farewell before America curled up and drifted off before the high fled. The morning was hell, but America had gotten up, showered, and put on another suit. His trademark jacket and glasses were left behind as he absentmindedly made his way to the conference room. It was going to be a long day, one which his mind was not yet ready for but body felt compelled to endure.

That was earlier and this was now. He had fled the conference room as soon as he was able. The others had filtered out more slowly, wary of his over-excited state. That state had yet to flee as America all but bounced. After the day's meeting he had gone to the downtown streets of Berlin once more and his pockets were weighted with another haul of what he was taking wholeheartedly to cheerfully referring to as his 'friends'.

The sun had set just recently but already the breeze was nipping at the exposed flesh of his arms, face, and neck. The slight discomfort was easily ignored as he trotted along the stone of the sidewalk. He really had no idea exactly where he was going, only that he was going _somewhere _and _needed_ to be there.

Up ahead, a spew of Technicolor lights spilled across the road as two patrons from the club stumbled out into the night. They were faceless no ones, no names with no past, and America passed them quickly before entering the club. The farther he moved down the hall, the more the music invaded his senses.

Standing just before the dance floor, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans and fingering his friends, America could feel the bass bury deep in his bones as his entire frame rocked and shuddered to the beat. Every nerve, every cell, every thought aligned itself with that beat as he laughed brightly, spotting a couple tearing up the dance floor and looking high off their asses but pleased none the less. They were another couple of Does and he wanted to be just like them. A no one. A nothing. Not a man, not a nation, just an_ it _doing whatever_ it _wanted whenever it felt like it.

America had never thought to go clubbing before. The idea of being packed into an all hot room with a mass of intoxicated and madly flailing beings. Since his roof hopping obsession didn't seem to clear his head any longer and with the knowledge that clubs and drugs went together well, he had decided to at least give a try. The music pulsated through his veins was pleasant enough, but still wary and clean, America skirted the dance floor and went to a table in a far, poorly lit corner.

He gracelessly plopped down onto the worn and torn leather seat and scooted close to the wall. Bringing his hand from his pocket, America let the contents spill out across the tabletop. There were pills of all shapes and sizes. He didn't recognize a single one of them, having no idea what they were or what they would do. The only familiar item was the left over powder from the night previous. His shoulders rolled lazily as he took out a credit card and began the task of setting up rails. The bag was empty as he finished.

Leaning back, he just stared at the socially offending items loitering about before him. His mind was oddly blank but he smiled. The music was thrumming all around him, coursing through the leather and wood and plaster and paint. There were no words, only the deafening roar of that dance beat as it pounded and pounded, leaving him _numb_. America figured it was the music driving away thought but enjoyed it regardless. Beneath the current of the music as it flowed through him, there was a pit of melancholy thoughts trying to claw up into his brain and make themselves known.

As America acknowledged them he couldn't deny the burning urge to completely drive away that irritation in the annals of his mind. The burn beat the itch; it always did. Impulse, control, the latter which America never seemed to possess and the former ever present in his nature. So, he sat forward and took up the piece of cut straw he had brought along as the words _Please don't stop the music _slipped in and out of his conscious nothingness. Soon, even that thought fled as he finished off five lines and set the straw aside.

On autopilot, his hand went out to snatch up the assortment of pills, mind utterly devoid of everything, _anything_. As he shoved the small handful into his mouth, the song changed and a new, slower beat rocked him. The sensation was overly pleasant as he waited for the drugs to take effect.

A lightness began to pervade his body soon as his whole being seemed to lift in the booth and soar with the music. It was the feeling of weightlessness, the _freeing_ release from an over flow of fear as his brain subconsciously registered the dangers of the substance beginning to thrum through him. He moved from his seat in the corner, leaving the evidence of his developing habit behind, and went to the dance floor. The intent was to dance till he collapsed or came down from the intense high beginning its constricting grip on his person.

It was getting late by the time America made his way to his favorite place: the center of the dance floor. A scalding need to move racked his body with something akin to pain as he set himself to shaking all the stress, worry and total _discontentment _away. His head hung low, chin resting on his collarbones, while his eyes went to half mast and body all but shuddered to the beat. He wasn't sure if the sight was really attractive or not, but those closing in seemed to think so as they ground against his hip, thigh, back side, _everywhere_.

He lifted his head, looking over the crowd. His eyes landed on a young man not far off and surrounded by a gaggle of men and women alike. Something about the other just drew him in. He had no idea why, only that there was an invisible force coaxing him in that direction. When coming to the club, he hadn't really been looking for anyone or anything in particular aside from an intense high and carefree joy. Both were achieved but the more he tuned in to his own body, despite the disconnect that had settled in long ago, he found himself wanting something more, something primal. Whoever the man was, America had found a possible candidate to relieve that animalistic need.

Approaching, America watched with hazy surprise as the man turned and he discovered the reasoning behind the almost mystical pull: it was Prussia. Who would have thought? America had never associated the once nation with clubs or looking as good as the man did as his hips swayed and whole body fluidly wound around the bodies beside his. America found himself drawn to a spot beside Prussia, unable to move as he continued dancing carelessly. The aura coming off Prussia was incredible and as the nation turned to move away, America found himself unwilling to have him go.

His hands flew out and seized the nation by the hips while America's body moved to press against Prussia's back. The rhythm overtaking his system never ceased as he continued dancing, Prussia soon following the lead.

The nation glanced over his shoulder after a few moments of lewd grinding to get a glimpse at who had fastened their hands so firmly on the exposed flesh of his hips. Confusion flooded his features as he registered it was America pressing a very prominent hard on into the side of his thigh. The situation was surprising, but not entirely displeasing as he twisted in that firm grip to face America. Now it was his turn to take charge. A devilish smirk climbed onto his lips as his hands found their way to the hem of America's shirt and lifted it to press the pads of his fingers into the hollow of America's hips.

Their bodies never once stopped rocking against one another.

Leaning in close, Prussia breathed, "Do you know what you've started? I just came here to party and I find you looking like a gussied up whore."

America leaned in as well, body overly sensitive and numb all at once, "But now we're rocking on the dance floor and being naughty, so you must like the gussied whore look."

Prussia's hand went further up the dark tank top, settling on the other's waist. The music played, lights darting across the crowd. They were chest to chest, face to face, and neither really cared. For America, the world was tilting and morphing as red and blue and a whole spectrum of never before colors obscured those around him and made him blind to any crystalline details. To Prussia, this was just an excellent opportunity to have some fun and maybe get a piece of ass he had silently admired for the past few decades.

"I wanna take you away somewhere private," Prussia hissed.

He almost missed the nation's statement as he completely escaped into the music as the DJ let it play. Leaning forward, the fabric of his shirt raking against the flat planes of Prussia's bare chest, he purred back, "I just can't refuse that with the way you're doin' this now. Keep on rockin' it and I won't care if we're in private or not."

When he pulled there, there was a lazy, languid grin settled on his lips. While he didn't want to move away from the music, didn't want the beat to _stop_ as it tore his body to bits and made him nearly moan in ecstasy, the idea of being taken away to alleviate the growing bulge in his pants was just too inviting. They could escape the music for an hour or so and surely, when they were done, the DJ would still be playing the nameless techno tracks. He just couldn't refuse as Prussia ground their hips together. The way Prussia was doing it, rocking continuously and driving him mad, and the way the music never seemed to stop, songs blending effortlessly with those before and after, were driving him mad.

Those wandering hands popped out from beneath America's shirt as Prussia's hand found its way to the small of the other man's back. With practiced ease, he led America to a secluded corner of the club. The same spot America had once sat to be exact. With a distasteful look at the materials littering the table, Prussia pushed them onto the floor before all but tossing America onto the surface. The table groaned under the added weight but did no more.

Leaning down, Prussia's clamped his mouth around America's adam apple and sucked harshly. The action rewarded him with a mewl from America as the nation bucked under him and sought friction. America twisted to the side, hands flying to Prussia's fly as the nation's mouth was pried from his throat. There would be a mark but that fact went unnoticed as his hands shook and struggled to free the erection he knew was there.

Laughing darkly at America's less than coordinated fingers, he pulled the super power's legs over his shoulder and bent him in half as he cooed smugly, "Babe, are you really ready cause I'm pretty fuckin' close and not sure I wanna wait any longer."

To prove his point, Prussia took America's hand and pressed the nation's palm to the still confined tent in his pants. Beneath his fingers, America thought he could feel the other's need pulsing. He could feel the passion and the need. This was happening and, _God_, did he want it. With more desperation than before, America finally freed Prussia from his fabric prison.

There was no shame in what they were about to do. Even if there were, the environment surrounding his body was too distorted for America to really even process the notion of shame. After all, no one had to know what went on between them; this was a private show in which only he and Prussia served as the audience. He had no idea what he had started with Prussia. The intention to let go and party had driven him into the club, to take the drugs, to dirty dance and get naughty with Prussia on the dance floor. Now it had driven him onto a table in a godforsaken corner of the club with Prussia hastily pulling down his jeans and boxer shorts just enough to get the _real_ party started before those hands were once more on America's waist.

The music played on as, without warning, Prussia pressed into America. Pain blossomed all along the man's spine as his body arched and rocked back down onto the shaft embedded within him. Yes, there was pain, but the information flooding his brain was being sorted improperly. The searing he should have felt came up as a burning along his lower back. The pleasure engulfing his mind was being amplified by four fold. He wasn't exactly sure what was going on, only knowing that he liked it: liked it a _lot_.

In time with the music, Prussia began to set a steady rhythm as he pounded into America carelessly. The nation growled, hunching forward so they were chest to chest and face to face once more. His hips bucked and spasmed. Hours of dancing against willing bodies had already set him close to the edge and he was almost positive America was in the same position as the ever happy nation twisted and bucked. America's eyes were screwed shut and brows drawn together as his mouth hung slack and mewls, moans, and growls worked out of the younger man's throat unchecked. The sight was too erotic. Prussia once again began suckling and biting at America's neck to avoid that sinfully delicious expression.

Their bodies molded into each other, flesh against flesh as America's shirt rode up and their hips met soundlessly.

The music drowned out everything for America. He wasn't even aware he was making noise. The raw, dry feeling in his throat went unnoticed as his body quaked. It felt so good; it felt so _goddamn good_. Prussia pounded into him relentlessly and waves of warmth washed over everything he was. His muscled burned pleasantly, tendons aching contentedly as they were unnaturally stretched to provide better angling. The entirety of his body slammed downward to meet every timed thrust. They moved to the music; that was the only thing America could fully comprehend in his altered state.

Unaware, a new chant began to slip past his parted lips between the gasped breaths and shuddering moans. He repeated over and over again, "_God_, please don't let the music _stop_."

* * *

**A/N: This one is Please Don't Stop the Music by Rihanna. When iTunes spat this song out, I raeged a little then saw the lyrics. Granted, I totally wanted to avoid any sort of clubbing scenes, but, whaaatever. So, anyway, I give you Prussia/America. It's a secret pairing I totally support. Side note, don't do pills, cocktails, or coke, kiddies. For those who don't know, a cocktail is just taking an assortment of pills. This chapter and the one previous were very kindly edited by the lovely Shatterdoll, because I'm still search of a viable beta. What am I on, my sixth or something? Lolfail. Anyway, read, review, get me a beer.**


	4. Embrace

**Caution: This chapter contains self harm, specifically cutting, and needles.**

When a second recession hit, and hit hard, three weeks after America returned home, he was forced to board a plane once more for an emergency meeting between the nations to discuss the issue. At first, he had been terrified of being around the others. In the rare moments he was lucid enough to remember the snippets of his trip out sessions, he came to realize just how absurd and ridiculously obvious his using was. Forced time around the others meant more time they could figure things out. Once the initial terror wore off and he took up a needle and knife, those feelings subsided. Right then, sitting between England and Canada around that all too familiar oaken table in London, America couldn't find the will to care. His arm was throbbing pleasantly beneath the cuffs of his dress shirt and his mind hummed pleasantly as heroin shot wave after wave of good feeling his way.

Germany was droning about something he really didn't give two shits about. England was at least trying to pay attention, Canada didn't look enthralled but certainly attentive, and the others crowded into the room were listening with various degrees of interest. As his eyes scanned the room, America was glad to find he wasn't the only one slouching and staring off into nothing. It made him look less obvious, but he couldn't even find the will to care if anyone found out. Things felt too relaxed and at ease. Worry was a thing of the past, at least until he came down and slunk off for another hit.

The hours ticked by quickly for America as he fiddled with his pen and made lazy circles across his note sheet. There was nothing better to do and he didn't feel the need to constantly buzz about. Not then, not when he was feeling so good.

"We'll reconvene tomorrow morning for further discussion," Germany finished, rather lamely in America's opinion.

Everyone stood, all hesitating, before they began a slow trudge out the door. America was the last to stand from his seat and stroll out the double doors. He didn't feel a need to rush; he was still riding high. The halls seemed all too long as he turned right. The walls began to gray and go dull as he made another right and approached the end of the hall. Things were mellowing out around him as his nerves went into neuro-chemical release overdrive.

He pulled out his card key, swiped it, and entered the room. One swift kick to the door shut it firmly, leaving him to toss the room key onto the elongated dresser beside the television set. Removing his suit jacket, lazy fingers went to work on undoing the buttons of his shirt. There was a dopey smile plastered on his face and an unfocused luster to his eyes. The look began to fade as he pulled away his belt and pulled off his trousers and undergarments in one foul swoop.

Naked and slowly sobering up, America went to the bathroom. The space was too small, walls seeming to squeeze and close in as he shut the door. The air, despite the overly cool quality, stuck in his throat and made it hard to breathe. Realization of his decent from the throne of heroin hit hard as the knowledge of a second recession and global distaste settled. Dark, rotting thoughts usually left dormant took the place of once idle thoughts of wellness. Over the past few weeks, he had come to despise the feeling.

With a heavy and shaking hand, he grabbed at the syringe sitting beside the faucet. His other hand reached out to the piece of abandoned tubing sitting beside the toilet. The ritual was practice as, with still quivering hands, he tied the tubing firmly around his upper arm. He pulled it tight before reaching out and grabbing at a bottle of clear liquid in the corner of the ajar medicine cabinet. The syringe went in and quickly filled.

All necessary procedures were completed before he carefully picked out a vein and haphazardly slammed the needle in. His thumb pressed down, injecting the liquid in a fluid motion. The needle came out once it was empty and he untied the tubing. Both were dropped unceremoniously onto the tile. The thoughts raging inside his skull were still there; the heroin needed time to work. Thankfully, America had devised another distraction that drove away the foul workings of his mind.

America took up a razorblade sitting on the sink's edge. The porcelain was stained black, patches of red still vibrant in places against the clinical white. Blood for the morning had already dried in the twelve hours it had been sitting there. He hadn't bothered cleaning up. The high had hit and all concern for the mess had dissolved.

He raised his left arm, razor blade in his right, as he slid the sharpened edge across the pale flesh of his underarm. The metal sunk into the flesh, burrowing and burying itself even as it dragged across and easily split the skin in two. Reaching the junction of his elbow, America removed the blade and looked on at his handy work.

The sight was nothing new. This was the eighth day he had engaged in self-injury. The entirety of his right arm was encased in bandages from the actions of the past week. The gauze was stained a murky brown in some areas, dark crimson in others. Soon, his left would mirror the right. A copper tang filled the still air as America inhaled deeply and drank in the rush of pain shooting up his arm. It hurt. It hurt a lot, but that hurt was driving away the thoughts, making them flee, eating away at them like acid. A sensation of total apathy came over him as the pain fell to the wayside and numbness stole over all else. Bringing the blade down, he began a new cut beside the first, then another, and another. He didn't bother stopping, even as his fingers stained red, along with the counter and tile, and slippery fingers struggled keep a hold on the warming metal.

As he gazed down at the pool settling at his feet, the blood having dripped off the side of the counter, he just stared. Blood was boring. It had lost as intrigue to him the second day. While blood in war or conflict had been natural, seeing it come spewing forth by his own hand, deliberate, had been an entirely different experience. Now, even that didn't matter.

He dropped the razor, letting it wedge between the porcelain and drain, as he looked at himself in the mirror. A crescent of black underlined his eyes. Sleep had grown boring as well. There was nothing comforting or nice about the dreams that plagued him. Thoughts that were silence during the day reared up then. His hair laid flat, Nantucket the only section standing tall. The color had faded, just as the blue of his eyes lacked luster. He knew he was running from the feeling he refused to acknowledge but he couldn't stop running. He counted every day that passed in which he once again failed to stop the self destruction.

His life, his hurt, his pain, his hate.

It all comingled to melt into one frothing mass of depression, self-loathing, and crippling weakness. Over the years, as technology and the average way of life grew increasingly complicated, his life had become an overly rushed, confusing jump from one duty to another. He couldn't remember the last personal retreat he had taken; it was too far back. Deep within his chest, a hurt had bloomed long ago. As distaste for him and his country grew, that pain only grew. The pain had begun to consume him even as he put on a brave face for the others an endured. When no one took the time to see past the flickers of agony he intentionally displayed, hatred wormed its way into the mess. No one cared enough to see, no one wanted to see. They wanted to see his smiles and hear his laughs, not watch him crumble. For that, America hated them all, though the fact was not one he admitted, even to himself, often.

The heroin began taking over as all lingering pain subsided and the intense feeling of happiness took its place. Dopamine raced through his body, igniting nerves and making him utterly numb. A haze settled over everything as he sank onto the floor and reached for the knob of the tub. Against the metal, his fingers slipped several times. Eventually, he turned the knob and water erupted from the tap. A knock tore him from his quiet, mental musings.

Rising, America wrapped a towel round his waist as he went to answer the door.

Left arm hidden and right mostly out of view, he opened the door. Already there was an easy going grin once more settled across his lips. The whole of his body was lax, comfortable and lazily confident. Cocking a hip, America greeted the visitor.

"Hey, England."

The nation's eyes narrowed, the green of his eyes looking also acidic in the glare of the all too bright hall lights. His arms were folded across his chest, speaking of irritation and reluctance to be standing where he was. They were only a couple inches apart in height, but England still tilted his head back to glare openly. His eyes shifted from America's glassy gaze to the bands of white peaking out from behind the doorframe.

"What happened to your arm?" he demanded, voice level but just leaking barely constrained annoyance. His guess was that America had been clumsy and hurt himself. The nation didn't seem all that impossible.

Brows raising, America pulled away from the doorframe and looked dumbly down at his arm. The appendage was completely covered from palm to shoulder, spots of color sullying the white. In answer, he shrugged one shoulder and looked back to England, "Fell again."

At once, England reared back, focused once more on America's face, "Into what? A nail bed?" Something was off about America, something had been off for a long while. The realization of just how wrong was only beginning to settle as he saw the completely unenthralled and almost unseeing way America looked at him.

America laughed, head tipping back. He was dizzy, almost unbearably so, but righted himself before he had a chance to fall, "Yeah, something like that."

"Let me in. We have to talk, America."

England's tone was no-nonsense, all cold demand. His eyes narrowed almost dangerously as his arms uncurled and shoved against the door. America stepped back; it looked almost like an afterthought even as the door came dangerously close to hitting America in the nose. Both the American's arms dropped as he stood casually just inside the small hallway of his hotel room. England couldn't tear himself away from the side. He gripped the edge of the door to catch himself before he stumbled dumbly and went face first into the carpet.

The cream of America's towel was slowly being tarnished with an unearthly shade of red. The wounds on his arms were still bleeding and didn't seem to want to stop any time soon. Droplets fell to the carpet below, staining it. When England pulled his hand from the door, they came back bloody. Frantic and confused, he looked to the door only to see it was smeared with blood from where America had once been resting his bleeding arm. He looked back to America's bleeding arm. The cuts were straight, too straight, too parallel, too shocking.

"A-America," England choked out.

The addressed nation quirked a brow and one side of his lips, "You look like someone just pissed on the Union Jack."

Any other time, England would have reared up. Now, there was nothing but mute horror as he stared dumbly. This was America, looking as he always did, albeit less there than years previous. This was the child he had raised, had watched tear away, had seen grow up. This though. Whatever was standing before him couldn't be his America, not the cheerful idiot with farfetched plans and far stretching dreams. Whatever it was only wore America's mask and, in England's mind, there was a complete disconnect from the man before him and an unfathomable familiarity.

"Shut the door, will ya?" America called as he turned his back. "You're letting all the cold air out."

America kept his voice light, playful, even as he walked over to the bed. What would have been a short trip seemed too long, almost as if he had been crawling there. He flopped back onto the floral comforter, hands behind his head, as another wave of dizziness washed over him. He had given up for the day; there was no point in hiding anything. At least, not when he just felt so wonderful. He had hit a wall and couldn't fight his way through it. That wall was up and its name was submission.

The drugs and cutting and risky behaviors shattered the gilded bars of his cage, crushed them. He was able to spread his wings and just feel alright about the world. When engaged in any of the three, there was no outside world, at least, not truly. There was only the fantasy adventure land his own mind created as sensory information was funneled through an ill-equipped section of his brain. They freed him, released him; they trapped him. They set up invisible but all too real barriers which he couldn't cross. Just across the perimeter of his self-created prison of freedom lay sobriety, health, and reality. Those things were now intangible, untouchable, but the drugs always erased that pitfall. Always.

"You have to come with me!" England demanded once more. He tried to keep his voice neutral but a thin thread of desperation wove through his words.

He couldn't stay in America's room anymore, America couldn't stay there anymore. There was too much blood for England, too much precious time lost for America. The man had bled and bled a lot. The bleeding needed to be stopped and he needed a hospital. England couldn't stand America's hotel room, not the way it was. Just seeing the nightmarish scene, America lounging on the bed even as blood caked his hair and blankets, made him feel as if he were falling, falling out of reality, falling off the world.

America shook his head at England's words, eyes slipping shut. They were just too heavy to keep open any longer and his lips felt sluggish even as they moved to respond, "No thanks." He wasn't about to give in to England, not that way. Not by complete compliance to just words.

England dashed forward and seized America's bandaged wrist. The nation didn't even recoil, making England wonder if America could feel anything at all. After all, he seemed completely uncaring towards his still bleeding arm. He had to take this chance and run, get America medical attention. He couldn't believe this was happening.

He tugged America's wrist, jerking the man into a sitting position. There was no time to worry about perhaps reopening old wounds as England yanked again. America was larger than him, better built, but England's frame was deceiving. His body surged forward, intent on going all the way to the London Hospital by foot if needed. All affairs considered at the moment, he would embrace being given a taxi which would drive them.

After more forceful jerking, England finally got America into a slow trot as he attempted to maneuver through the halls to the front doors. America was being unhelpful, refusing to move any faster. He didn't see why England was so frazzled. Everything was right; everything was in its place. There was nothing but the distorted environment enveloping him as he floated on cloud nine. His life was finally in place; to him, England shouldn't have been worrying so much after nothing. He wasn't bothered, why should England be?

Life was a story, the words being written as they played out in the all too real lives of everyone and everything. The plot twists constantly bent to whatever significant or otherwise event surged through the milliseconds of life. Just as time was ever changing, so were the history books of beings and nations and animals alike. America had given up beating a dead horse: trying to deal with the emotional build up. He had started needing a release and found it. It had all become an infinitely long entry in his story. His life, his hurt, his pain, and his hate were all jotted down, left behind by the turning of the page and using of drugs.

Life was done fucking with him. When he had nowhere else to go, he turned to the centuries-old fallbacks humanity had taken up.

The brisk walk his life had become was slowed to a crawl, an extremely slow and much needed crawl. He had given up. He had hit the drug induced walls. He couldn't fight out of the self-destructive prison. America had a chance to run and took it, telling himself it was the better solution, the only, best, and certainly not depraved option. What really did he have to follow anymore? Nothing.

And he loved that lack of obligation.

Nothing made sense anymore and he welcomed the ignorance. The world had taken everything from him and given nothing. He had watched himself fall, the others had watched, and now, sitting at rock bottom, there was no inkling to give a shit. There was no compelling need to fix himself, fix anyone, fix anything, and it was so nice. So, so, so nice.

He had brought himself down and that was where he wanted to stay.

America had already worked everything out in the moments that coherent thoughts were possible.

Why couldn't England understand that?

His ex-overseer seemed completely oblivious to his new found joy. England's hand was tight around his wrist, nails biting into the bandages and into the flesh. The man did not look back but his body was tense and shoulders quaking. Even as they moved into the glow of the sunset, that tension did not ease even as America slowed to take in the overly beautiful sunset spilling across the buildings of London.

"Get back in and drive!"

America turned his attention forward once more. His head tilted to the side, gaze questioning and curious as to what was going on. England's voice had trembled when he shouted the order and France, standing beside a modest looking compact car, had stood straighter while his eyes widened. There was a pause on France's part before the nation breathed out curses in his national tongue before hastily slipping into the driver seat. England all but flung America into the backseat, following quickly as he slammed the door and began tearing off his shirt.

The garment was wrapped around America's forearm tightly, cutting off the slow blood flow still leaking out from between the thick clots and dried patches. England was nearly screaming directions at France, trying to sound imposing and commanding even as tears slipped down his cheeks and landed on America's bare knee. A honk sounded from the right as France barreled through an intersection.

"England," America began slowly, "is something wrong?"

The nation turned, eyes burrowing into America as his lips set in a firm line and impressive brows drew upward. Anger bubbled just beneath the surface of England's gaze, dwarfed only by the confusion and hurt freely spilling from his eyes. England's entire body jerked, unsure what to do as his hand shot out and seized America's.

America looked down at the hand, eyes bleary. He didn't understand why England couldn't understand. This made him happy. The cutting, the drugs, the various ways he had found to cope and clear his mind. They all eased the stress, took it from him; freeing and enslaving him all at once but being far too inviting to ever leave or deny. England needed to understand that, America needed him to. So, America looked up from their joined hands and flashed England a toothy smile.

England's shoulders only shook harder as choked back a sob and tried to appear strong even as he openly wept for what he could call the true fall of a nation, a once bright and beautiful nation.

* * *

**A/N: Beta'd once more by the ever awesome Shatterdoll. I love her intensely for doing it despite her own aversions to needles and cutting. I put a little pre-reading warning for those who share Shatterdoll's views on such material. None of it really bothers me, so I forget it bothers others sometimes unless I get a reality check. Anyway, this one is Embrace by Korn. It was actually the most difficult of the four to write. Sorry if I screwed over England's character, I don't particularly like him sooo~, take this as a shot in the dark. Should probably stop rambling now, ngaf. Read, review, favorite.**


	5. Falling Through A Field

He wasn't sure what was going on, only that something important was taking place and everyone seemed frantic. The swirl of seriousness was wreaking havoc on his high. A fall out was coming and he wasn't anywhere near the things he needed to fix that problem. America was beginning to internally freak out.

Someone had ripped the towel from around his waist and shoved him onto a cot. America made a noise of protest only to have England shove his back against the sheets. He made a move to sit up once more but there were already hands tearing at him, gripping and feeling and just being too _invasive_. The attention was not welcome. He felt trapped, suffocated. This wasn't the no-name joy he usually felt. This was becoming hell.

There was a hand swiping at the cuts on his wrist, another unwrapping the bandages covering his arm. Shouting. Someone was yelling for something. The words felt muted, far off. His head was spinning and a wave of depression began sweeping across his mind. Terror overtook him as his body began to shake violently against the sheets. Even his best efforts to quell the quakes rocking his body did not work. A snarl tore its way from his throat, like an animal being forcefully caged.

One arm swung out, catching the nurse at his side just as she tore the last of the sullied bandages off. She shrieked, clutching at her shoulder. More shouting seemed to seep from the walls. An inky black was taking over his vision, clouding everything and adding to the desperate fear clawing at his innards. Something was going on, _something_, and he didn't like it. It felt oppressive, unpleasant, and America took to feeling like a lost child, caught in the dark of the woods with no way home or a weapon to protect himself from the lurking dangers rustling not far off. He didn't know how to fight these beasts.

England was there though. Big brother England was there. Whispered words ghosted over his ear, barely reaching his consciousness. It was as if his head had been submerged. There was pressure from everywhere and nowhere, pushing down and making it hard to breathe. The comforting words being spoken so close to his ear and the soothing touches against his shoulder were garbled as his mind began spinning. Something was happening, _something_, but he couldn't place what or why.

All he knew was that his vision had fled, had left him sitting in the dark and so thoroughly frightened. His limbs were like lead weights and refused to thrash out. The shot of sensitivity once present lingered still but dulled as those hands became feather light touches. No sounds came to him and the smell of clinical cleanliness no longer lingered in his nostrils. The world was fading and quickly. He wanted to growl again, to snarl and nip and strike out to soothe that ache of pure horror in his belly. Nothing left his lips but a barely audible murmur of nonsense as his brain switched off and left him to blissful unconsciousness.

When he woke, nothing made sense. It was like sitting on a cloud made of shattered glass. The fabric resting against his flesh felt itchy and coarse, almost as if it were tearing into his skin. The muscles in his limbs ached and his head was throbbing painfully. The room was all too hot and all too cold. There was sweat beading on his brow and chest while his nose ran, causing him to weakly attempt sniffling. Despite the weariness in his body, America couldn't rest any longer, especially not as an orchestra of sounds and voices began to fill the air.

"America?"

He turned his head to look at the speaker, neck protesting the entire time and making him wince. It was Canada. The boy looked utterly haggard. His eyes were red, fresh tear tracks still engrained in his cheek. No hints of shy joy showed on his features, only a grim, weary sadness America had not seen for quite some time.

His mouth opened to respond but nothing came out, only managing a reassuring smile. Words wouldn't form properly as his tongue stuck to the dry interior. He swallowed thickly, the action causing a jolt of pain to spark. The discomfort must have shown because Canada went into overly lovey brother mode, questioning America relentlessly as to what was wrong and attempting to fix the silly things like fluffing the pillow and tucking in the wool blanket tighter around America.

He was going to wave Canada off as a way of saying he was fine but the action of raising his arm caused him to take in just what had been done to him when he was out. There were fresh bandages around both arms, looking to have been much better than his previous slop job. His eyes followed the line of his body beneath the blanket to his protruding feet. From the top of his right ankle, two lines emerged. Each went to a pole, a bag of clear liquid hanging from one hook and another bag of crimson hung on the other. His foot itched and he wanted so badly to sit up, yank the needles out, and scratch till he bled.

That course of action swiftly failed as, despite the burn of fatigue and pain, he began to sit up and a hand shot out to push him back down. An air of agitation enveloped America as he looked over to England, silently demanding through narrowed eyes and the hardened line of his lips, to be allowed to sit up. The other nation stared down at him. A plethora of emotions were playing across his face, all intermingling and disallowing any of them to linger for too long before another took its place. There was annoyance, fury, grief, and guilt amongst others.

America's eyes scanned over the crowd of mismatched nations littering his hospital room. Lithuania huddled close to Poland, both hovering in the corner together. The latter lacked the compassion displayed by Lithuania. Japan stood just near the foot of the bed, looking stoic and pained, while his brothers, China and Korea, sat beside the door. France stood beside England with Germany, Spain, and the Italy twins just behind the pair. On Canada's side of the bed, Australia leaned against the wall with Russia sitting just beside the bed, lacking his long coat and sporting a sleeveless sweater with a swab of cotton taped to the crook of his elbow.

The room was far too crowded. Everyone standing there, staring at him, with a mixture of melancholy and pity plainly displayed just pissed him off. It irritated him. There was no reason to be sad, no reason to pity. He had chosen his lifestyle and had been content with it. Had he not be high, America was sure he would have and could have stopped England from creating the horrible mess America found himself knee deep in. Just how could he explain things to the others?

The bitter thought of _They'd all laugh at me if I tried to explain _nagged him. America found himself in another sort of self-imposed imprisonment. He couldn't very well explain himself to the others. All possible reactions his imagination offered up were more displeasing than the last. The others could laugh, might increase their merciless teasing, or, and worse of them all, keep staring at him with that mixture of pity and anguish. Anger flared. If they had just kept their noses in the own business, if England hadn't butted in during a particularly intense trip session, none of this would be happening.

_I hate them _he thought sourly.

Even with that running through his mind, he did his best to smile. So long as the others saw him looking cheerful and at ease, they were more likely to back off and not notice the obvious. After all, it had worked wondrously in the past. Just as the edges of his mouth quirked upward, a wave of chilling quiet settled over the room. Even the rustling of clothing had stopped and everyone just stared at him, some grimacing and others recoiling and looking away.

What was wrong with them? He was smiling; he was sure of it. His face ached from the effort, finding the task to almost be too taxing. To keep up appearances, he didn't let it fall. There must have even been a brightness in his eyes, an aura of relaxation surrounding his slowly loosening muscles. None of it was working, no matter how hard he tried to wordlessly push the issue. America wished fruitlessly to be able to speak. Spoken word always swayed so much better than any transparent play he could put on. The scene was incomplete and ineffective without his voice.

An itch began to build in America's feet. It wasn't the literal itch to scratch out the IVs, but rather a metaphorical sort that left him wanting to just run. Run, get away, take flight. Be free. He wanted to swing one leg over the edge of the bed, then another, and flee from everyone's judging gazes and sure-to-come accusations. Fight or flight was beginning to kick in as his anxiety skyrocketed. Everything hurt, but America knew well enough that, if he could get enough adrenaline worked up in his system, a short sprint wasn't that out of the question.

America made a move to sit up once more, this time unhindered by England's hand as the others began to press in. The dryness in America's throat began to subside even as his eyes darted from one occupant to the next. They all came to the bed, towering over him, and he toyed with the idea that he was having another bad trip.

Everyone seemed so much more imposing when they collectively hovered over him, regarding him as some kicked puppy or broken doll.

Livid remorse built up. He hadn't wanted to cause them pain, at least, he hadn't tried. It wasn't his fault they had found out and disapproved. America refused to take any of the blame. It was their fault, England's fault. They could blame England and stop blaming him as they always did. Always, always, _always_.

_Always_.

Somehow, he worked his tongue until a raspy sentence tumbled past his cracked lips, "Hey guys, I need a little air so could you back up and maybe open a window?"

"O-of course!" Canada responded immediately, caught off guard by the sudden use of speech.

America's throat burned from the sudden bout of use, and he refrained from doing so again. The crowd around his bed thinned as the others backed away, eyes still locked on him. England went to the window beside him, opening it wide and letting the spring air spill inside. The smell of a fresh rain and budding flowers made America's stomach churn. Things were not allowed to be so sweet when he was locked away from all things that helped to dampen the tidal wave of all things negative building in his gut. It was a cruel irony he couldn't take lucid.

Once more, America felt as if he were some puppet in a sick show, put on display before the hungry eyes of unwittingly cruel children as they just stared, completely enraptured. The strings were pulled taunt, leaving him immobile. There was nothing he could do. Try as he might to fight that which kept him pinned, America could not free himself. The hopeless feeling of before his blissful journey into darker arts of therapy seized him once more.

America needed to run.

He had to get out.

The strings had to be severed.

If he could deviate from the path of normality and travel down the upturned cobblestones of drug use and self-injury, America was fairly confident he could escape the puppet show. A tug, a jerk. Snap and break and scramble for freedom. Even if the sudden release left him dangling helplessly, anything was better than being someone's marionette.

England backed away from the bed like all the others, taking a seat in a chair left two feet from the window. His emerald eyes looked down as his nervously wringing hands before darting to the impartial white of the room's walls. He was about to open his mouth, demand America tell him why. Ask why America hadn't come to him, hadn't gone to Canada, hadn't gone to anyone. He wanted to tell America they would have listened. They could have helped, that reaching out wasn't quite so terrible. They had all done it, America wouldn't be the first. It wasn't something to be ashamed of.

None of the touching words would remove themselves from the lump in his throat. They sat there, caught and unable to wrestle out despite his best efforts of clearing his throat and humming softly. Nothing worked so he could only pray that Canada could voice his unspoken thoughts.

It appeared his prayers would be answered as Canada went forward to grab America's hands, lips parted to allow a spill of words to descend, but America bolted. In a flurry of movement, America became a blur of pale blue, weathered gold, and bleached cream. The nation sprang from his bed in a sudden fit of adrenaline, fueled by contempt and a drive to free himself from the metaphorical strings keeping him forever trapped in a world of malcontent.

The bed tipped, pushing Canada aside so he landed on the tile at Russia's feet. The large nation moved quickly and picked Canada up, azure gaze snapping upward to catch the trails of America's hospital gown drifting out of the window. England reached out desperately, trying to seize America even as the nation reached the pavement and tumbled head over heels before righting himself and taking off. Everyone stared, mouths agape, as they watched the hen fly the coop, feathers flustered and a caged fear filling once brilliant blues.

As America ran, he told himself that running really wasn't the weak option. If anything, it was a show of strength. Lying in that bed, so utterly helpless, he had picked himself up. His legs were working tirelessly beneath him, pain having subsided for the moment. His arms pumped wildly and head hung low as he ran nowhere, only hoping it was far off. People parted for him as he came upon crowds, staring after him but saying and doing nothing. America wished the other nations could be apathetic towards him as the throngs of people he weaved through.

Adrenaline was not a fulltime cure and a reminder of that fact made itself present as his body began to wind down. His eyes were tearing and muscles once again protesting. The once fluid and powerful motion of his body slowed to a jerky crawl and sweat slicked his skin and nose ran. Copper over powered any and all other smells. His nose was bleeding, but America paid it no mind as his knee buckled, leaving him to tumble and roll down the crest of a hill he had been climbing. Going head over heels once more, America watched the world blur between a sickly green and washed out blue. He had no idea how far he had gone, having lost all sense of time in his need to escape, but found himself somewhere in the countryside as his body collapsed in on itself.

There was still dew on the grass and it cooled the burning on his backside. Nothing helped soothe the intense current of agony pulsing through him. His nerves flamed up all at once, creating a wavelike effect as they rocked him from hypersensitivity and near unconsciousness. The bile within his stomach was rising, causing his throat to seal and swallow thickly. Air rushed in and out as he gasped and attempted to find his bearings, any bearings, anything really. His mind was swimming, images and sounds and smells merging with one another and creating unfinished portraits of the world around him. The sky above was shifting and changing, the clouds morphing and twisting. The sky was doing the macabre dance of a man suffering another, unprovoked trip.

America felt as if he were falling, falling right through the field he found himself lying in. The sun beat down on him and as his head turned from side to side, he caught sight of the dead bodies of dandelions, scorched by the sun. One hand reached out, shaking and crying out for immobility the entire time. As his fingers connected with the brittle yellow petals, they crumbled, becoming a mulch upon the dandelion grave.

He lay there and felt as if he would never move, just stay there forever and ever.

The sunlight made him feel all too hot but it served as a blanket, coating him and weighing him down. It was the sensation of being pushed under the water's surface, of being submerged and having all that water surrounding one's body. It pressed in from all sides, not entirely uncomfortable but unpleasant all the same.

He had escaped everyone and now the only thing plaguing his mind was the desire to lie there forever and ever. Here, in the field with all the dandelion graves surrounding him, he felt as if he were falling through the field. Soon, America expected the ground to open and swallow him whole. Dirt, and roots, and the critter which live below the earth would surround him and a new sort of gloomy comfort would take over. So, he would lay there and wait for the earth to devour him, forever and ever and ever.

* * *

**A/N: . . . My bad. I was aiming to get a chapter up each day day. But I had a doctors appointment, got good and bad news, and had a little beta hitch. I absolutely refuse to force my beta to keep up with my insane chapter a day update goal. No way, not happenin'. That's just rude. Edited by the ever lovely Shatterdoll. I was going to get this up earlier today but. . . Well. Had a little hitch. I got so pissed off that Germany lost to Spain earlier I punched a wall and fractured my knuckle. Yaaay, I'm smart, pain medication, whoo. Anyway, I forgot to mention something. The actual idea for the basic flow of this story actually comes directly from my own personal experience with drugs. I'm writing it as a sort of therapy and celebration because my one year clean anniversary was last month, thus, this idea was spawned. It's a sort of way to leave that time in my life behind. Yaddayadda, you don't care. :D Falling Through A Field by Black Moth Super Rainbow and I tripped out so hard to this song a long time ago, js. Read, review, the next chapter has sex.**


	6. Gone Forever

England had no idea what was going on or what had gone wrong. He felt at least a century older as he nursed a glass of amber whiskey. Rubbing at his temples, the nation stared pensively at the cherry wood of his office desk. To say he blamed himself would have been putting it lightly. Ever since that night when he caught America roof jumping, before even that now that he really thought about, there had been an inkling as to something seriously wrong. America had once been one dimensional to him and he wrote the odd behavior off as a budding of maturity, however late it may have been. Due to his inattention and fervent denial of anything being amiss, America was gone and he still couldn't believe it. It was gone in the sense that America had bolted, but that the man he had known, raised was gone, destroyed.

He and the others had searched all day and well into the night. The hours ticked by but America eluded all of them despite their best efforts. With hesitant glances and guilty consciences, they had all agreed to resume meetings another time and take up the search in another five hours when the sun would be rising. England couldn't sleep, he was intent on staying up all night if only to get completely plastered. His eyes were bloodshot from crying. The tipsy faze of drinking always made him emotional and teary eyed. Embarrassing, but at least this time he had been in the privacy of his own flat.

The nation glanced up, looking to the walls surrounding him. No one was ever allowed in his office under any circumstances. If anyone tried to answer, they got a demonstration of a British right hook. The cause of the extreme measures hung all around the room, some even tucked away beside stacks of books on shelves or behind mountains of paperwork. Photographs of smiling, or scowling if he were in the picture, hung all around the room.

There were ones of he and America just after the First World War, looking worn out and haggard. America was grinning like an idiot, flashing the peace sign, with an arm casually slung around England's shoulders. He may have been looking away and glowering at the ground, but there was a tug of a smile to his lips. That had been a good idea. He could remember after the photo being taken, America had laughed. It had been a clear, bell like noise, something akin to a song bird's trill or blades of grass brushing against one another in the breeze. It had been a beautiful sound.

Another hung just below it: V-E Day. The battles and memories of the Second World War were not clear, but he could remember that day when the turmoil in Europe was ended. America was smiling once more, wider than the last photo. His head was tipped back, hands on hips, as he tried to make himself look like the hero he always proclaimed to be. The man was not looking at the camera, eyes instead looking towards the sky. Now that England really looked at the photo, he could see the over exaggeration evident in America's features. He was posing, acting, being an overly obnoxious idiot even as his eyes narrowed in silent torment and body looked rigid and unsure.

"Goddamn it."

How had missed that before?

That's right. He had written off the obnoxious antics of the World War Two to the strain of conflict. It had been easy, considering, as he stood next to America with arms crossed in the photo, the evidence of war shone through his haughty, dignified act. They had all felt that war, lived it, breathed it. Any quirks arising from it were simply overlooked.

Sitting beside a stack of his favorite novels, England's favorite picture peered out. The bookshelf was directly across from his desk; the photograph was exactly eye level. He couldn't place the date. There had been no special event to take the photo. He only knew it had been a time of laughter and pure, uncontained joy. An ordinary day where there had been no worries and life was looking up for them all.

America was sitting on a table cloth, mounds of food surrounding him. The sun shone brightly behind him. It had been setting when the photo was taking. England sat next to America, legs folded beneath himself and looking out of place in the park in his formal wear. The man beside him had dressed much more casual in flip flops, a t-shirt, and jeans. There was nothing remarkable about him besides that brilliant smile and clear, arrogant stare. America had been so happy the day England agreed to a picnic with him. It had been a good day. It was one of the rare photos England had actually smiled in.

There were others, some more remarkable than others. Combined, they all told a story of their lives, of his and America's. Many of them sported the pair arm in arm, at America's insistence, or at least standing near each other. Many contained some of the other nations, namely France and Canada. In each, they all looked so incredibly happy, honestly content. Now that England really looked, even as his vision got fuzzy and he could have sworn there were two copies of the photos, America's smiles grew progressively faker.

He had to wonder just how long he had turned a blind, ignorant eye towards the boy's growing distress. Going from the photos from the forties all the way to the two thousands, England could see the decay. America's displays of warmth and friendliness increased in the amount of over compensation. His lips would part wider, curl upwards farther. The gestures he made to show companionship increased in intimacy. It was almost as if America had been trying to validate the relationship by exaggerating everything. If he could up the ante, put on a more proud and showy display, then that meant it truly was real. The worse the acting got, the more pitiful the photographs looked as England's eyes scanned the walls.

In a fit of his own self-pity, England downed the rest of his glass before reaching out a wavering hand to seize the half empty bottle. When he started, the thing had been full. For a moment, he just glared at the bottle and wondered where it had all gone. The warmth filling his belly and silent cries of his liver gave him the answer.

Pouring another glass, he slammed it, feeling so much better. The alcohol was beginning to loosen his lips and control over proper and right thought. Things he was _sure_ he would never dare to think sober began to emerge. Namely, the thought that he was _glad_ America was gone, even possibly forever.

"I don't miss him at all," England told himself, muttering. "I'm not lying at all."

He couldn't deny he felt so much better now that America was gone forever.

_No_, the still functioning sector of his brain reasoned, _you don't feel so much better. You miss the daylights out of that boy and have for decades. You knew._

Things were becoming clear. He had known, always, deep down. Somewhere within himself, he had known America was changing. To think of all the years, all the countless years, which America had hung on seemed impossible, improbable. He knew it was true though. America was valiant and stubborn, always had been, and had done his best to keep the spiral they all suffered from time to time hidden. England cursed himself. He should have told America about the eventual burnout. Nations couldn't exist and not become overly taxed. It was in those moments of utter weakness which a nation leaned heavily on another of their kind for assistance. He could remember one of the many times he had fallen from grace, only to be helped and healed by a less perverted and oddly sage-like France.

"I don't need him here!" England roared, slamming his empty glass down. The pens in their shoulder clattered, having fallen over in his fit. "This world is complete shit right now and I'm glad he disappeared! Just another annoyance gone."

The reasonable side of his brain seemed to have quieted. It offered up no counterargument this time; though, by the rolling in his stomach, England knew his words were hollow. He knew he was being pathetic, denying all these things, staying up all night, getting drunk, and picking fights with pens. Until the morning came, England just wanted to forget about his life, their life, the one he and America had shared. To think of the bumbling idiot caused a wave of nausea to rise up.

A knock sounded on his office door, earning a glare from the man behind the desk. God help him if it was the wine drinking frog. With unsteady hands, he pushed himself his chair and stood on unsure legs. They wobbled for a moment, getting used to the spinning of the room. With a slow gait, England went to his office door, cursing his luck of having been so lost in memory and thought he didn't hear anyone at the front door. Taking a hold of the knob, he turned it and leaned heavily against the doorframe for support.

"I feel so much better," America eagerly piped up once the door opened. He looked like someone had willingly tossed him into the back kitchen of a McDonald's and told him to eat whatever he pleased. The nation's eyes were wide, pupils nearly overtaking the blue. There was a surreal sort of smile on his lips and he looked so much younger without his glasses. Any other time, England would have welcomed the sight, told the boy just how silly he looked when lacking Texas. Now, he stared slack jaw and eyes wide. Not only was America at his door, but there was two of him. The nation laughed, pushing his way inside, "I haven't been gone forever, you know!"

Relief and elation flooded England's system as he closed the door and let his back rest against the heavy oak door. The green of his eyes bored into America's back as the nation fiddled with the overturned cup of pens. _I didn't miss him, didn't miss him at all, _England told himself. The feeling growing in his middle said otherwise. The America before him was so much more the boy he had reared. It wouldn't be lying to say he missed America and he couldn't deny he felt at least a little better to know the boy was alright and being his old self.

America turned, glancing over his shoulder, before he did a full one eighty and leaned against England's desk. That's when England picked up on it. Even in his intoxicated state, the signs were easy enough to pick out. America's eyes were half lidded, unseeing, and exuding nothing but a dumb, dull sort of weary joy. There was nothing behind his smile, just empty feeling and an empty head working on the survival instincts America had developed long ago. Smile, look happy, look relaxed and he could hide anything. He was a Hollywood pro; the instinct was second nature and his body's default. America was set to hollow mirth and playing on repeat like an old, worn record that could get even the most unsavory listener doing a jig.

"Come here, England," America beckoned.

His words were slow, paced, slurred. They left his lips like a wisp of smoke, barely there and quiet. It was just a whisper, just a fragment of his normal, boisterous tone. The sound was unsettling but England went forward, rational side of his mind screaming no while the clearly inebriated side beat the other down and drove him to stand just before America. Looking into the other man's eyes was not a challenge. They were near the same height after all.

With a stumbling sort of ease, America hoisted himself up onto England's desk. Pens, paper, and works in progress slid to the floor to accommodate America. England was about to protest and demand the boy get down off the desk and stay put till he could call someone less drunk to take care of America. Despite his yearning to nurse the boy back to mental, and apparently physical, health, he knew to do so while pickled would just be a horrid idea.

The words never took flight. America's arms wrapped around his shoulders and legs around his waist, pulling England flush against the nation. The nation tipped back, dragging England down with him as America's head hit the hard wood. The knock seemed to not have jolted the boy as his head tilted to the side and hips ground upward. England couldn't deny the jolt of enjoyment running up his spine and flush coloring his cheeks. He and America hadn't been intimate in what seemed like a century and his body ached to remedy that.

"Ya know," America began casually, even as his hips continued to move with a languid, awkward pace, "The first time we fucked, you screamed at me. Said I was doing it wrong and it hurt."

The nation laughed, probably recalling the memory even as a deep frown took over England's lips. He could remember that time. It had been after the Revolution, a good thirty years at least. The thought of France taking the boy's virginity had been just too much to bear and, through grit teeth and mutual love hate mixture, he and America had agreed to battle out any cross feelings between the sheets. England had allowed America to dominate, leading the boy but being discreet. The moment had been a gift to America, a token of his apologies for any wrong doings during America's colonial years. In turn, America had handled him gently, or as gentle as a fumbling virgin really could be, and made his own personal atonement.

"I should have made you-"

His words cut off when America arched off the desk, increasing the friction between them. America was already hard and, grudgingly, England would soon be following if America continued to stroke the back of his neck and rake his nails across England's back.

"Leave," he finished lamely.

_This is wrong, this is so wrong. I have to stop. This has to stop. I'm drunk and he's high and hurting and-_

"I should have known it could have been so much better."

America's look of ecstasy melted as his eyes grew wide and stared up at England with curiosity. A tongue poked out to trance along the edges of England's lips, imploring for the man to elaborate on the odd statement. No such thing came. America's mouth found its way to England's, pressing and unrelenting as America's hips soared upward into England's neither regions once more. The elder nation gasped, allowing America's tongue to delve into his mouth. Despite his unresponsiveness, America seemed undeterred as his eyes slipped down and hips pressed more firmly.

"I hope you're missing me," America breathed against his ear when they finally pulled apart. "I hope I've made you see I'm gone forever."

England's head dropped even as America's hand shot to the crotch of his pants and began undoing the fly. He knew he needed to stop this. What he was about to do was sick. It was disgusting. He was taking advantage of America or America was taking advantage of him. Perhaps neither of them would really be the victim. They were both in altered states and lost within a world of their own they developed to escape the torments of what everyday life had become. So similar and yet both so unwilling to admit it.

He had to try desperately to keep back his tears as America pushed his trousers and underwear down. Everything was becoming clear for England, "I don't need you here."

America nodded in agreement and hummed. He shoved England's clothes down to his ankles before loosening his grip around England's waist just enough to shimmy out of his own pants. With a wry, pleading half smirk, America got England moving as the elder of the two reached down and pulled America's lower garments completely off. He reasserted himself between America's legs, head hung in shame and face a guilty shade of red.

His body was screaming for acts of the sexual nature with America. It had been far, far too long since he got a taste of that sunshine, that piece of America. Usually, in the time when they convened to join as one with lewd acts, both would attack the issue with vigor. This time, it was only America's lazy fingers and sloppily timed pace which would solve the issue. England refused to move. He knew it was wrong, knew he should leave and stop this, but he still hung over America with hands on the desk just beside the nation's head. He couldn't meet America's eyes, not now, and maybe not ever after what he was about to do.

In that moment, England hated whiskey.

"Considering the world around us," England managed to choke out, "I'm glad you disappeared."

"I feel so much better," America purred, one hand going lower to seize England's need and line it up with the straight curve of his own body, "Now that I'm gone forever."

America thrust his body downward, impaling himself as his head tipped back and hips greedily began a rhythm immediately. England couldn't deny it felt good with America wrapped around him, working almost feverishly considering his current state. The obvious, rotting _wrongness_ of it all made his stomach churn. He already knew he would be vomiting when they were finished. The alcohol had already upset his stomach and now his own conscience would force his head into the toilet bowl to pray to the porcelain gods for forgiveness for the sin he was about to commit.

"I don't miss you at all," England told America.

As he bit his lip painfully hard, England knew he was telling himself that, once again. He tried to tell himself he wasn't lying, that he couldn't deny feeling so much better now that the old America was officially gone. America was gone forever. He told himself he didn't miss the man he used to spend so many hours with arguing, so many days denying the warmth that spread through him in those peaceful, simple moments they shared. Reasoning that he wasn't lying, that he was glad, England just couldn't force himself to believe any of it.

"Now you're gone forever," he breathed, shaky.

"Now I'm gone forever," America affirmed, unsure.

* * *

**A/N: Errr, typing really hurts, guys. Iunno if I can really update until my hand is healed. I'll do my best, pop some pills, and we'll go from there. So, if I do update after this, expect some pretty loopy stuff. Remind me next time NOT to punch stuff when my team loses the Cup. On another note, song is Gone Forever by Three Days Grace and told you there was a little unfunfunf. So, there. Read, review, notice the trend that every three chapters sex pops up.**


	7. My December

America had never liked winter; he hated the season. Snow made travel difficult, slush and black ice caused more car accidents than he cared to count, and, no matter how many blankets he piled on himself or how many logs he shoved into the fireplace, there was always a pervading chill filling his bones and making his body shudder violently. This was his December. Despite the beating of the sun and warmth of the humid air pressing against his skin, he couldn't stop himself from shaking. This should have been his time of the year, when flowers were blooming and everything seemed revitalized. This was turning out to be his December and he hated it.

Somewhere in the last few days, he had gathered enough sense to wander back to his hotel room and change into a proper set of clothes. Perhaps proper wasn't the correct word for it. He had thrown on some ratty, black hoodie and gray, frayed sweat shorts. After snatching up his wallet, he'd left the room and hadn't returned. Paranoia began to set in and America had set himself to hiding away, ducking in alleys and avoiding all others.

Now he had crashed. The money had run out and no dealer would trade sex for drugs; at least, the dealers he found wouldn't. He had begged, pleaded, while high out of his mind, only to be denied and slowly come off cloud nine. When his eyes peered from the fold of his elbow, the world seemed sharply focused. Everything was clear.

There was grime and what looked like an old and dried blood spatter on the wall. The bricks were faded and mold clung to cracks. Cockroaches and beetles were scurrying through the piles of trash sitting just opposite him. The day was cloudy but a stray ray of light had somehow found him as he sat against the building's wall, knees drawn up to his chest, and head tucked into the fold of his arms. America couldn't contain his shaking, there was no stopping it nor the violent churning in his stomach.

Time had become a broken toy train tossed to the wayside. Where it had once been faithfully chugging by, marking his days, it no longer applied. The train had been derailed. He wasn't sure what day it was, what month even. Everything from the last few, and he was guessing, months was a total blur. Not much made sense. He could remember a plane ride, leading him to guess he wasn't in his own country, and running and jumping and running and being terrified. Flashes of pain crossed his mind. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and saw the bandages, eyes widening. It was the first time he had become fully aware of them.

"Shit," he breathed, voice cracking and leaving his throat feeling raw.

The shaking continued, unforgiving and unrelenting. Every now and again, his head or shoulders would smash against the brick behind him. There was nothing he could do. This was his December, his prison. There was a coldness invading his body, one that gripped him, left him breathless, stole his life from him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine a blanket of snow surrounding him, covering him. In those moments of imagination, he was observing as if a third person. He could see himself huddled and shaking, ever moving but never getting warmer and the snow softly fell and buried him alive one flake at a time. In those seconds he let his mind conjure up false images of what he figured would eventually become truth, America accepted the fact that the alley would probably become his snow covered home when winter set in. He couldn't see himself moving before then.

His legs were aching, arms throbbing, entire body murmuring in agony and just wishing for some reprieve. He was sweating but cold, yawning and overly tired but unable to sleep, hungry but too drained to get up. He was frozen, kept firmly in place by an icy hand holding him down. Just envisioning someone pressing down on him, shoving him to the ground and pinning him there, made America's head snap up to look around. He told himself it was the paranoia as he laid his head back down, dizzy and drained from the sudden movement as his body lurched and slammed the bone of his shoulders into the bricks. He was alone, no one around to hear his hiss of discomfort or low growl of helplessness.

To turn his attention away from less than positive thoughts, America tried to recall more from his hazy memories. There wasn't much. In the times he had come down, another hit was already close at hand. He'd been far too wary of letting the good feelings go to not at least form some half baked precautions. That was something America prided himself on then, feeling as if it were the only thing he could really grasped on to.

"I just wish that I didn't feel like there was something I missed," he muttered after a moment of wracking his brain. The efforts had proven futile. Nothing would come forward. Everything was slicked with a layer of infectious sludge. Memories were murky at best, distorted and warped into something he wasn't even sure was earthly. "Fuck."

His head returned to the crook of his arms once more, unwilling to face the outside world any longer than necessary. It was too painful hearing the thunderous din of men and women going about their lives, happy and contented, everything he wasn't, couldn't, and hadn't ever. Their smiles clung to the airy drone of their voices, laughs flittering about like discarded pieces of torn paper in the wind. He was envious of them, the people of London. They could smile and laugh so easily, so effortlessly. Then he hated them. They were spoiled and sullied, overused, something that should have been precious. Then he pitied them. Then he pitied himself.

Who was he to judge them?

A weight settled once more on his shoulders and America's head shot up, eyes wide and body ready to clumsily spring. Fight or flight had long ago been defaulted to flight. He no longer had the energy to fight. If he really thought about it, America doubted he ever really had. His legs did not spring out though, he didn't bound forward, he just stared upward as his gut twisted.

"Russia."

"America," the nation greeted, nodding. He held out his hand, offering to help America up even as his lips kept their sickly sweet curl and refused to part.

America stared at Russia's hand, eyeing it. His mind was screaming for him to run. He and Russia had a past and even if a tentative and religious awkward friendship had been formed in the last few years, he couldn't see himself being with Russia. Not now, not when he was sober. Not when he was so openly bared for the world to judge, for the nations to criticize, for _Russia_ to _laugh_ at. America ducked his head once more, unwilling to look any longer at Russia or his offered hand. If he didn't see Russia, he could pretend Russia didn't see him. It was childish logic but something America refused to ever rid himself of. Childhood naivety was the only pure thing he felt he could grasp any longer with his trembling hands.

A memory invaded his thoughts. One of a room, pure white, smelling of cleanliness and an undercurrent of death and dying. There had been people, Canada, England, others. Once friends, now personal enemies. There had been Russia, one of the closer ones to him, just staring at him with a look that screamed levels of understanding that would have made America sick just a decade ago. Russia sat passively, staring, a wad of cotton pressed tightly to the joint of his elbow.

A low, whining noise rattled his throat, searing it. Russia had given him blood. Become one with Russia _indeed_.

America's arm uncurled from atop his knees and stretching out, darting through the air unsteadily as it attempted to connect with the cool of Russia's palm. The nation standing over him assisted, grasping America's wavering hand in his own as he pulled upward. The action was oddly graceful but there was just something _wrong_ with it. America couldn't place it, not then, not when his mind was already so scattered. He just knew it was bad like a child knows hitting another is bad but just can't contain himself. America felt like that child, accepting the hand of someone who would have once sooner slit his throat.

Russia didn't miraculously pull a knife, though. Instead, his free hand reached out and secured his coat draped across America's shoulders. The hand still holding America helped the trembling nation to stand beside him, both basking in the light of the sun before a cloud blocked out the warming rays and casted them both in an overcast veil of dreary gray. Though America's knees banged against one another and body jerked almost rhythmically, Russia got the man to stand relatively straight before an arm snaked around America's waist to provide support. Then they were leaving that alley and America couldn't stop his brain as it fired wildly and thoughts collided, scattered, shattered.

The man beside him was oddly warm like a broken heater still attempting to sputter out some kind of warmth. The heat did nothing to soothe the chill buried deep within America but he found himself helplessly curling closer. He felt weak, stupid. Here he was, clutching at Russia like a lifeline while he stumbled and attempted to just put one foot in front of the other. He was America; he was the United States of America. This was Russia, the Russian Federation. They were bound by a bitter history and a claim of repulsion that only ever brought them closer on some more intimate level than either cared to acknowledge.

Even as America tried to regain himself, posture himself to push Russia away and scrounge up some of the old bark and bite, nothing came. America was spent, so utterly spent.

"Where are we going?" America demanded, voice soft but an air of authority still creeping into his words.

Another reason for him to be proud. While shoving Russia away and loudly denying that he needed help was out of the question, he could at least gather up enough to seem not so helpless. For America, it was bitter sweet. He didn't need help, hated being helped. Nothing was impossible for him, he could do anything. Right then though, even America had to admit to himself, he needed something.

_Drugs are what I need_, he thought angrily, face pinching.

He attempted to straighten in Russia's hold, to glare at the man holding him close as they slowly but methodically went through the crowd. More than a few odd stares were thrown their way but both parties were numbed to the attention. Almost reverently, Russia stared forward, face blank aside from the hollow smile ghosting his lips. When violet met blue, an exchange was made. Quid pro quo. America understood and that was enough for him, so long as he wasn't taking without having something stolen away in return. Fair exchange, he could deal with and accept that.

They walked silently through the London streets, coming up on the ritzy section of the city with more hotels and less backwater filth. Vaguely, America recognized the area where his hotel and the conference rooms were located. Just as his body was about to jolt, unready and unwilling to face the others for mind fuck round two, Russia hung a left and crossed the street with America still pressed to his side.

"I am staying at a different hotel than the others," Russia calmly informed him, having sensed the anxiety and sudden tensing of muscles beneath the palm pressing into America's side.

The nation nodded, trying to right himself and at least put some distance between them. America was not weak. America could walk tall on his own, but he knew that leaving the safety of Russia's half hug hold would lead to him falling. His legs were already wobbling dangerously and body listing. Silently, he cursed his body as Russia pushed open the doors to a modest looking hotel and steered them towards the elevator. The doors parted for them, revealing no one inside as they shuffled in.

The elevator lurched upward, America's stomach following as he finally gave in and crumpled. Russia's arm came more firmly across America's midsection to hold the nation up even as the man hunched half over towards a corner and emptied the contents of his stomach. The air filled with the sour stench of acid, causing Russia to wrinkle his nose and try to crane his head away from the scent wafting up. When he was finished, America attempted to right himself only to find his body too weary. He would have fallen into a puddle of his own vomit if Russia had not hoisted him up once more, not putting America through the injustice of being carried but forcing him to stand and walk once more as the doors parted.

Russia never broke stride, refusing to allow America to buckle under the crushing weight of his own body's shortcomings. The only pause came when they paused in front of a non-descript door and Russia casually asked for America to fish through the pockets of his coat for the card key. While America had been annoyed, since his ever moving hands couldn't grab the key let alone hand it out to Russia without an immense battle on his part, the action made him actually grateful, relieved. He wasn't being babied or carefully handled like some frail doll. There was an equality and reserved caring to Russia's actions. America was unsure as to the man's real intent, if it was true kindness or satisfaction at seeing him so low, but he knew he was grateful.

While America wasn't pleased at being sat on the bed, he could at least understand. Had Russia just departed and left him standing, even America had to realize he probably would have just fallen on the floor. The fact made him cringe, but the coverlets fisted in his clenched hands were soft and the room was warm. America lay back on the sheets, feeling particularly worn down and trashy compared to the untainted cream of the sheets.

His eyes went to the ceiling. There were tiny rises scattered throughout the light paint. He traced designs with them, playing a game of _what do you see in the clouds _with just a little improvising. The game at least kept his mind busy and the depression at bay while he waited for Russia to come back. The man had disappeared just as quickly as he came. America's head turned, gaze landing on the window opposite the bed. The curtains had been flung back, revealing the tops of buildings and the clouded-over sky. A muted glow came in through the glass, casting the room in an unsullied white light.

The first sign that Russia had returned came as a bottle of water was thrust in his face. His eyes tore away from the window to look up, to silently question the man above him as to just why he was being so_ nice_. Russia wasn't looking. Instead, his eyes were trained on the window America had once been looking out. Struggling to sit back up, America took the water and sipped at it cautiously.

"I did not poison it, comrade," Russia seemed to joke as he laughed lightly and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He looked over, amusement clear, as he tipped his head back and laughed once more, "You remind me of Latvia with your shaking."

America bristled at the comment, "Fuck you, buddy. I can't help it."

His voice sounded raw even to his own ears and he couldn't bear looking at Russia anymore. If he didn't see Russia, Russia couldn't see him. If Russia didn't see him, he didn't have to feel ashamed and violated for being so exposed during such a trying time. He could make believe there was no Russia and he was sitting in his own hotel room, nursing a bottle of beer and eyeing a bag of coke sitting on the nightstand next to him. The thought made him shudder violently and a jolt of elation to speed down his back. How befitting, he was terrified and enthralled.

With keen eyes, having been cleared of any glassy haze long ago, that stared at Russia as America rolled the water bottle in his hands before taking another sip. His stomach protested but his throat rejoiced and he found himself more able to speak, "I take back all the things that I said to make you feel like that."

He was stunned by what came out of his mouth but Russia seemed nonplused as he raised a brow. Without thinking, America opened his mouth to finish the thought, unsure as to why he was evening trying to justify his words, "I mean, all the shit I said to make you think I'd think you were poisoning me. Or. . . Something like that." He wasn't even sure.

There was something curling up in the pit of his belly. It wasn't the nausea or the constant ache; it was something much more vile. A mistrust of sorts, a bad omen. He couldn't place its cause but only knew that his already frazzled nerves wouldn't handle the feeling of unease tactfully. There was something he was missing, America was sure, and he just wished he didn't feel like there was.

"So, yea, I take all that stuff I said to you during the, you know," his hand rose to vaguely wave through the air before it dropped with a dull thud onto his knee.

An awkward silence pervaded as he stared down at the blankets. Taking another sip, his eyes drifted to the door. It was a light oak with pseudo gold rimming and a bolt and chain lock. Beside it, in a little cubby space, were Russia's bags. They looked to still be packed. He wasn't sure why he noticed those things, only that it kept his mind from straying into quickly worsening territory. So, America began a quick reconstruction of his walls. In the hospital, he had been taken by surprise. While sitting in Russia's hotel room was a bit of a shock, it was at least one where he could think clearly, or at least, somewhat clearly.

"I'd give it all away," America began, taking another drink. He had no idea why he was talking or even what he was saying. That nasty, nestled up feeling in his gut was rearing its head and viciously tearing at him, telling him no, no, no, stop talking. America did not heed the sensation, instead choosing to go with speaking thoughtlessly. "All the drugs and stuff, just to have somewhere to go. Just give it all away to have someone to come home to."

_What the fuck am I saying?_

His eyes went to Russia once more, wide and questioning. There was something wrong. They were friends, yes, but not that close. Those were personal thoughts America had yet to tell anyone, even England. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why he was saying it to Russia. The other man seemed completely comfortable though, taking in the words and just letting them sink in. He wasn't smiling or laughing, just sitting and looking.

A chill ran up America's spine. His shaking was beginning to ease even as his stomach rolled continuously. There was something wrong.

America forced a smile to his face, laughing, "That was pretty sappy, huh? Bet I had you going."

Right then, he wanted a mirror. Some surface he could look into to see himself as he paraded around a fake, over-joyous smile. He found that reflective surface in Russia's eyes as he steeled himself to look once more. The sight made his body tense and shoulders sag; Russia wasn't fooled.

_This is me pretending. Shit, and he knows it. This is all I need right now._

The thoughts were bitter and stole the fleeting warmth from his face as his lips pursed into a tight line and brows drew together. He took another sip of the water, rolling it around on his tongue.

"I'm kidding. I-" he stopped himself but continued on, unable to once more cease his talking, "I'd really like to have somewhere to go, _someone_ to go to. Just so I can bullshit with them and be normal. But I can't have that."

His voice just seethed with bitterness. America's face took on a listless quality as he continued to stare at Russia.

"Help me, America. Do this, America. You screwed up again, America. Mind your own business, America.

"The same lines have been spoken to me over and over again like some demented record player and I can't pull the needle off the record to just make it shut up. I can rattle the god forsaken thing so it skips, but it always comes back to the same old shit. You all fucking hate me and it sucks and there's nothing I can do about it."

He didn't realize he'd said all that out loud.

Russia's face softened as he stretched a hand out to take the bottle from America. Half the contents were already drained and the nation finished off what was left. The bottle was tossed into a nearby waste basket while their friendly staring contest once more resumed. Though America would have greatly enjoyed to continue the heart to heart he didn't even want to have to just stare endlessly into Russia's eyes, his body had other plans. The aching was settling, the shaking degrading to gentle quakes. His stomach had yet to settle, but at least the feeling of anxious dread had fled.

"I understand, America."

He lay back against the sheets and curled up on his side, careful to leave enough room for the other to lie down if he wanted and to avoid answering Russia's statement. It was still midday, but America had no idea how long he would be out and he wasn't in the mood for anymore deep conversation. His entire being wanted to scream and thrash for drugs, for something. The craving had lessened since he first came into Russia's hotel room, but it was ever present. As he lay there, trying to sleep, he thought about waiting till Russia was sleeping and then jacking the man's wallet for cash.

"Hey, Russia," America surprised himself once more by speaking up. "You drugged it, didn't you?"

He couldn't see the nod as Russia dipped down to slip off his boots. The man crawled under the sheets and lay with his back to America, one hand curled up under the pillow his head rested on, "Amobarbital. Now go to sleep."

America wasn't surprised, couldn't be. One hand rested on the sleeve of Russia's coat. The poor garment was lying under him, probably getting dirtied with all the things America had found himself sitting on, lying in, or picking up. Maybe, if he could get enough money for one last trip down tripping out lane, he'd make a call to get the coat dry cleaned.

"Why'd you drug yourself then?"

"Go to sleep."

"Freak."

"American."

A slight quirk of the lips showed America's amusement as he tried to get comfortable despite the hoard of vexation plaguing him from all fronts.

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**A/N: Kfgkjerljtklfjgklfg. I hate this chapter with a burning passion and I thoroughly believe it sucks hxc. Bahhh, this is why I shouldn't write when loopy off my ass on pain medication. Promise it'll never happen again~. I already have the next chapter of his written, just had to be edited. This one is My December by Linkin Park. Iunno how well I'm going to be able to get chapters up after this and the next. Family shit is eating my soul. Let us pray that I can get me some Prozac or something. Read, review, use American as an insult. I hear you Yanks find it absolutely _hilarious._ Justkiddingdon'tkillme.**


	8. Into the Ocean

Sleep left just a fleeting taste on his tongue as a short few hours later America awoke. He had been frightened upon waking, unsure as to where he was, how he got there, or why there was a living radiator lying so close. The tremors started anew but his body still attempted to tense and shrink away to the edge of the bed. He had no idea where he was, only that it was dark and he had gotten into bed with another. He didn't want to turn over and look. Fading into oblivion or melting into the sheets was tempting.

Unconsciously, his hands fisted together and eyes went downward. There was a cascade of light flooding in from the window, lending some illumination to his surroundings. From what he could tell, it was a hotel room. Glancing down at the mattress, the answer as to who was sleeping so close became clear. Clutched tightly in his hand was Russia's coat.

Alright, so that made sense. He was in Russia's hotel room. Obviously, the man had found him and brought him back here.

America's hands went to feel about his body, checking to make sure all clothes were still securely on. The check successful, he dared to attempt sitting up without waking the man beside him. He had always figured Russia a heavy sleeper but as his body jostled in place and shook the bed, he had to wonder if the man wasn't dead. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth though, there was an unignorable itch building and America could deny it no longer.

With as much care as his body could manage in its shuddering and crumbling state, America got off the bed. His feet padded against the carpet of the floor noisily, only the drone of the London nightlife helping to damper the sound. Slowly, painfully slow, he rose to stand on shaking knees. The springs groaned after being relieved of his weight and the room soon fell into a dreary and unsettling quiet. At any moment, America expected Russia to pop up, manifest his trademark pipe, and take a hefty swipe. After minutes, seeming like hours, of standing stock-still and on edge, America made his way to the nightstand set beside Russia's sleeping form.

He inched closer, baby steps taking him closer and closer till his heart was thundering in his chest and hand poised just over Russia's wallet. At any moment he could be caught, maimed, anything. There would be nothing he could do about it either, America knew it. His entire body ached, shook. Muscle was weary, bones creaky, mind scattered. Fighting was out of the question so he just prayed and prayed that Russia couldn't hear his heart hammering away or the imaginary shing of his every nerve becoming taut before snapping.

Nothing came.

There was only the white noise from the streets outside and the clatter of his own mind's imaginings. Russia did not stir. With more confidence than previously, America snapped up the wallet and made a quick exit, willing himself to run even as his body threatened to completely collapse. After seizing the wallet, he didn't care if Russia woke up. So long as he made it out of the room, the hotel, and was well on his way to downtown, there were no more worries. His mind was screeching for another hit, another high. So long as that need was satisfied, America couldn't care about anything. Within the captivity of drugs came the freedom of letting go. That was something he had come to expect, desire, love.

The bare pads of his feet beat against the pavement as he clutched the lump of brown leather close to his chest. He now had money and money would get him what he needed, wanted. Money would lead to his happiness. The idea made his stomach roll but after decades of watching big business run his people into the ground, America found himself otherwise rather numb to it. Money and happiness had always seemed to go hand in hand.

America ran till his lungs burned and legs buckled beneath him. Thankfully, he had gotten to where he needed. Unwilling to move aside from getting himself into a sitting position, he sat on the sidewalk and tried to pry bits of glass from his sweatshirt. The shards in his palm from the fall went unnoticed amidst the collective throb of his body.

Soon, the man America needed rounded the corner, looking casual and calm. America started as he called out to the man, beckoning him over. The exchange was short. America dug through Russia's wallet for the money he needed, handed it over, and in turn received a cornucopia of pills and powders. Give and take, America liked it, liked it a lot.

Without a second thought, he opened the bag and pulled out a small handful of pills and popped them into his mouth. Forget the world, forget himself. That was what he yearned for. Forget the others, forget society.

Forget reality.

What was once so real and vivid began to blur as America's hyperactive metabolism kicked in. The pills hit a pot of already waiting stomach acid, quickly dissolving and being taken up into his bloodstream where they could wreak beautiful havoc. A building storm began inside America as the desperate desire for another high fled and a hazy, dream like state over took all else. The lines of the buildings around him faded to nothing, becoming one with the road and the people and the night sky. The moon warped itself into some grinning being, looking down at him, just him, and America told himself the moon was smiling just for him. America made himself believe it.

A fluttering feeling of weightlessness lifted him up from the sidewalk as he finished out the remaining pills and tipped his head back. Somehow, he managed to choke the capsules down even as his throat closed and laughter bubbled up. Finally, finally, finally. He had his fix. Joyous, America shoved the bag and wallet into his pocket and hailed a taxi. He had no idea where he was going, only that some garbled form of speech fell off his lips and the driver nodded once. America sat back, sure that wherever he was going, he'd love it.

After a long ride, the driver came to a stop. At first, he hadn't noticed, having been too mystified by the passing clouds and blobs of buildings. A shout sounded from the man up front and America turned his gaze to him, eyes glassed over and a wide smile stretching his face. It wasn't pained; it wasn't forced. For once, America had an honest smile threatening to tear his face in two as he reached for Russia's wallet once more and handed the driver what was left. He wasn't sure if it was enough or more than was owed but climbed from the cab anyway. When no protest came, he hung his head as a pleased feeling washed over him.

The vehicle behind him roared to life and left him. Looking back up, America found himself completely enchanted. The echo of distant waves made their way through the pleasant mash of sensations along with the cool touch of a loving ocean breeze and the cold of dew and grass sifting through his wriggling toes. The sea loomed before him, crashing against the rocks below the cliff he stood upon. The waters were a murky black, the light of foam rising up before being smothered by another sweep of black. For a moment, the moon was blocked by another thick shield of clouds and America found himself enveloped in a sheet of darkness.

Spreading his arms, America let it all wash over him, cleansing, revitalizing.

Rebirth.

His eyes slipped shut as he took another step towards the edge, feet leaving the grass to instead root themselves in the gravel of the cliff edge. Everything was so indescribably wonderful. America couldn't even begin to process the euphoria of it all, only knowing that he needed more of it. Something, anything. Just more, more, more. He took another step, toes curling around the jagged edge of rock separating him from flightless reality and weightless serenity.

He thought he was normal, that this was normal. When the world became too much, who didn't try to escape? Who would sit back and let themselves be mercilessly controlled by the crushing weight of responsibility and maddening onslaught of depression, anxiety, and fury. No one could stand it. He had sunk when he fell overboard. Like a stone to the bottom of a lake, America had become a meaningless remnant of some earlier time when things weren't quite so dismal. His ship had left, drifting through the waters of other countries, other times, and left him to forever sit in the muck.

That wasn't him though. He couldn't stand being stuffed into a suit and handed speeches to recite. None of it was him. It was someone else, England maybe. Germany probably, but not him. America refused to condemn himself to that, to forever lie beneath the surface and dream of the surface. He would rather swim ashore and breathe again. Wasn't that what he was doing? Maybe the others didn't understand, but America had found his lifeline. Now, he was without a life that was sadly stuck. He wished he had been more masculine, more authoritative and commanding, before the spiral began, but time had lapsed and could not be wasted on wishing.

He leaned over the edge, breathing the salt and spray and beauty.

Maybe he could've learned to swim but the shore had seemed like fourteen miles away, impossible to reach and teasingly beckoning him from the horizon. Perhaps he could've bobbed up and down in the endless ocean, spinning and colliding into sound as he let the water's beat fill his ears and soothe the growing ache of discontent. America hadn't chosen that path. Instead, he'd dove down, sinking to the bottom of everything that freaked him out. The lighthouse beam had run out and everything became as cold as cold can be. As America felt himself sinking deeper into the abyss, hope had fled and left him feeling hopeless and unwilling to allow another into his personal hell.

He had wanted to swim away from it all, just get away. Was that really so bad? Was he wrong to want something so human, something so deeply rooted in self-preservation? It had felt like he was falling into the ocean, letting the waves take him down as a hurricane within himself was set in motion. An everlasting acid rain had begun, drenching him in everything he felt and eating away at his flesh till he was forced to come down to his knees and succumb. He had let the rain come down, let it destroy him, and now he was repairing the damage. America was violently stealing back the once flippant joy he basked in.

Once under the waves, America had lost himself completely in the years previous. There was nothing but the hollowed din of the outside world as everyone moved around him and he lent his body to some otherworldly being that assisted him in completely everyday tasks. When the drowning began, he had lost the will to care about business and meetings and friends. A couple years passed and America found himself dependant on that nameless, faceless savior just to get out of bed, dress himself, even eat.

In the beginning, before the current sucked him farther from the surface, he had wondered where the proverbial coastguard was. Where was his hero, his saint? He had looked in each direction for a spotlight, someone to give him something. Some sort of life line, something for protection, bits of flotsam junk would have even done just fine. Anything. There had been nothing to grab onto when it all began. The jets seized him, pulled him down. America had sunk, left behind by everything and everyone. He had treaded for his life, intent to stay afloat, only to finding himself wondering progressively more frequently 'How can I keep up this breathing?' As the waters yanked and tugged and suffocated him, he slipped farther and farther.

Inhaling deeply, America bent at the knees. Not knowing how to think any longer and just basking in sensation alone, he let his legs propel him forward into the air. Everything turned to nothing. Thoughts drifted off, emotions melted away, reality crumbled. He felt as if he were flying, completely uninhibited. There was nothing to stop him, keep him from living any longer. The whistle of the wind past his ear and the gush of wind padding his belly sparked something forgotten in him. Flying, flight, total freedom. His body short circuited, everything falling numb as neurons ceased firing and the world came to a stop.

All good things had to end though. What seemed like a limitless suspension in the air and timeless trip into lala land came to an abrupt end. He screamed aloud as his body slapped against the surface of the waves and he began to sink. The icy chill of the waters bit at his flesh, willing him to submit. His arms and legs broke down, unwilling to move as he began to sink further. With a broken cry, America tried to valiantly struggle to the surface once more, envious of the solid ground as he thrashed mindlessly. He cried out for anyone, anything. His hands rose from the waters and reached for the life within him, groping for the air and surface.

There was no one and nothing to assist. America found himself utterly alone as a wave washed over him and shoved him down once more. No amount of desperation was going to save him. How could one man stop his ending?

Briefly, America thought of Russia's face. Why it was Russia, he didn't know. Only that he saw the man standing before him, mouth kindly smiling but eyes speaking of depthless fright and comprehension it made America's chest squeeze painfully as he attempted screaming. Water rushed into his lungs, encasing him in helpless dread. He couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't move.

Soon, his body just gave up. The intense need to breathe faded away as the edges of his vision faded. Relaxation came as his arms ceased their fruitless attempts at saving him. His eyes shut once more. He could almost see himself floating away in space even as another wave pushed him farther down.

America blacked out only to wake to the sun. Blinking and shooting upward, hacking and pounding at his chest, he realized it hadn't really been the sun. It hadn't all been some crazy dream while he laid out in the White House gardens. The source of light came from the gleam off a head of off white locks, taking in and amplifying the moon's rays as the piece of rock shone brightly once more. Still coughing, America calculated what he had just done.

It had been like jumping from the bow just to prove he knew how. It was midnight's late reminder of the loss of himself, a person he had once egotistically loved. His will had told him to end it all, had sat front row to his need to end it all. Into the ocean he had gone, intent on ending it all. Before, it hadn't made sense, not when he was flying high. The struggle had sobered him up, left him shaken and trembling as the wind that had once felt heavenly chilled him further and reduced him to a quivering mess.

He had gone into the ocean. Goodbye to everything. He had been intent on ending it all. Goodbye to everyone. The haze had covered up the true intentions of his subconscious but now, sitting on a beach with sand clinging to the palms of his hand and Russia staring at him, things became clear.

The all too familiar feeling of desperate, desolate helplessness took hold of his chest and threatened to crush him. He couldn't take it. He had wanted to swim away but couldn't figure out how. Falling into the ocean, letting the waves take him down, had only succeeded in setting another internal hurricane in motion. Everything within himself began an uproar. There was sadness, there was pain. Agitation and depression mingled and seeped into one another. Hate boiled over, at himself and everyone he had ever known.

His hands went to his face when the coughing ceased. Russia was right there, staring. America could feel the man's gaze as it bore into the side of his skull. Russia was watching him but America couldn't help it. Shoulders quaking and whole body jerking, America began to sob into his hands. A rain of what he felt right then began to come down and he let it. He let the rain come down. It was a downpour, a flood. No dam could stop the overpowering need to cry. Keening screams kept locked in his throat soon followed, venting his frustration and seething hatred.

He felt weak.

He felt stupid.

Into the ocean he had gone, intent on ending it all, and Russia must have followed after and pulled him free. Now, here he was. Soaked to the bone and cold beyond all belief but numb to it all. His head was in his hands and knees drawn close as he openly sobbed and bit back screams just begging to be released.

He was pathetic.

He was ashamed.

America figured Russia knew it too.

Yet, he was utterly taken aback as Russia came forward, slipping his coat off and instead pulling it tight around America's back. The man slid forward through the sand, feet uncovered and wearing only his undershirt and trousers, and unwound the long edge of his scarf. With careful ease, he kept the garment wrapped tightly around his own neck even as he produced enough of the fabric to wrap around America as he scooted closer. Securing the scarf, Russia came close enough to let his knees bump America's feet as he reached forward and took the crying nation into his arms. A hand pressed the back of America's head into the crook of Russia's shoulders, stroking the sodden golden locks, as he whispered hushed words.

* * *

**A/N: Song is Into the Ocean by Blue October. I love this song and totally didn't mind listening to it on repeat~. Beta'd by the always fantastic Shatterdoll. Side note, sorry if I don't always say who edits things. I have the attention span and memory of a yappy, leg humping ninety-year-old dog. Also have a love hate thing with this chapter. I really like the ocean stuff, but that last paragraph I hate. It seems sorta OoC to me, but, eh. Plot devices, what're you gonna do? Read, review, I have nothing funny to add this time.**


	9. The Only Medicine

A week had passed in which America sat lounging around Russia's hotel room. Though, lounging was the sugarcoated version to the much more pitiful display America had been putting up. Day and night, the man shook uncontrollably, constantly wracked by an unseen chill. Russia had discovered there was little he could do after attempting to pile blankets atop the nation and turning the thermostat up. Nothing worked so America continually shook. Besides the body tremors, America had been making runs to the bathroom, usually to empty an already bare stomach, though, thankfully, that habit had quelled to a never ending spree of nausea. All other ailments had drifted off about mid-week, though the nation still couldn't find solace in sleep or the energy to do much of anything.

The two had hardly spoken to each other after Russia assisted in getting America back to the hotel room. That night, America had scowled fiercely and spit out that Russia was not to tell any of the others he was there. As requested, the northern nation hadn't told anyone of America's presence, only saying when questioned that he had seen a head of golden hair or a fleeting glimpse of azure eyes. Those who had been relatively uninterested in America's fall from grace had left London long ago but many had rooted themselves in the city's cobblestones, unwilling to leave until the run away nation was found.

It all made Russia wonder if America could even grasp just how much his recent exploits were unsettling and upsetting the others. From the way America dragged his feet, intent on going to the bathroom, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Russia highly doubted it. The nation seemed so listless, so vacant and blank. It was unsettling to Russia, unendingly so.

America paid little mind to Russia's stare as he passed through. Such had become their interaction. Russia would leave to attend a meeting or something and come back with food. He would be handed a meal that would be ignored in light of the sickening rolling of his stomach. Russia would lean against the headboard, flip on the TV, and become dead to the world. Meanwhile, America would curl on his side and attend to whatever he needed. On occasion, he would feel a poke or a prod from Russia, indicating some small change in their new routine.

This was a day like any other for America as he silently shut the bathroom door and made a tremendous effort to avoid looking himself over in the mirror. Letting the blanket drop, he set to peeling off his clothes. Never once had he asked Russia for replacements, instead opting to wallow in the filth of his own unwashed clothing. He didn't so much mind the filth on the fabric though he doubted Russia felt the same way.

Wrinkling his nose in distaste as he got a whiff of his undergarments, America tossed them into the corner of the bathroom and turned the faucet in the tub. He didn't care about the temperature, instead choosing to turn on the shower head and hop right in. The water was ungodly cold, making his body jerk and spring to the back of the tub. With a hiss, America eased himself back into the spray and adjusted the knobs, waiting for the water to warm as it washed over him. Closing his eyes, he could almost see everything, his worries and doubts and fears, washing away, cascading across the tile and down into the drain. With all sound blocked out, America let himself envision the shower was doing more than removing the dried on sweat and caked on grim.

_I never thought I'd be alone_, he thought forlornly, letting his eyes flutter open as the water turned from an icy downpour to a rather pleasant lukewarm waterfall. Glaring at the shower head, his fists clenched at his side. _Well, look at me now_.

He'd spent so many sleepless nights, either too high to sleep or too preoccupied with the constant pain and unrest to find any semblance of rest. America wasn't fool enough to think he didn't at least partially deserve it. Now that he was clean and could think clearly, though he hated the crystalline quality the world had taken on, he'd realized how his sudden freefall into the drug life had just been one large metaphor. It was a giant manifestation of painful goodbyes to those he believed didn't care anymore, a salute to those he would be leaving behind in an attempt to free himself from the shackles that had been tightening and tightening till he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even _think_.

America grunted, running a hand through his sodden locks, _Who the hell am I kidding? _The grunt turned into a snarl as he forcefully turned the water off and came out of the shower.

Anger coursed through him, burning him from the inside out as a cloud of resentment began to gather. He wasn't even sure who he was angry at. Himself, England, Canada, Russia, his boss, the world. America couldn't place a finger on just one. Instead, all of it combined into a seething mass, filling his belly and clouding over reasonable thought.

Yes, he was angry at himself. He had let himself become something unnatural, something wholly and fundamentally _wrong_ and had allowed himself the easy way out that lead to only heartache and pain. The lifestyle had consumed him and he had let it. There was also rage at England though, for not having picked up on the long string of hints he had dropped. Littered throughout history, he knew he had been leaving a trail, foreshadowing this day, when he would break. He had thought at least England or Canada would have realized _something_ was going on. His boss, too, was another source of the building vile emotions. Task after task, document after document had been forced down his throat all at his boss' insistence. Soon, before he even realized it, America didn't just resent one entity, instead, he began to hate the world because hating everything became easier than trying to pick out a shimmer of good in it all.

Then there was Russia, the man who had dragged him from the sea and brought him back. It was a mixture of anger and gratefulness which built whenever he thought back on the event a week ago. He had broken down and cried _in front of Russia_. Recalling the memory, his stomach flopped and caused another wave of nausea. No one saw America cry, _ever_. It was almost a golden rule. He had wanted to slip beneath the wave and drift off in the tide, but no, Russia had to stick his large, Russian nose in things America didn't want it in. For saving his life, America was both grateful and hateful towards Russia.

The hate and anger won over any other sort of unplaced emotion. He let the fury take over, finding it easier to let it devour him than trying to fend it off and find some sliver of good naturedness left in himself. The feeling built and built, flooding the reserve and slamming against the dam keeping him from lashing out. As his hands began to shake and eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, he knew there would be a catastrophe. One crack, two, three.

America slammed his fist into the mirror as he broke down and the flood was released. He let a ragged, torn growl work out from his throat as he retracted his fist and launched the opposite hand, effectively shattering the mirror. Fragments of the glass were embedded in his hand, cutting into flesh and sending jolts of searing pain down his spine. Copper invaded the humid air as he breathed deep and let it fill his lungs, sickening and delightful. For a moment, there was calm even as he heard Russia scrambling just outside the door. The man began pounding on the door, jiggling the knob, and demanding America tell him what was going on.

Again, America struck at the already decimated mirror, cracking bone and ripping away skin. Again and again and again. This time he could not stop. Even as the room started to spin, America couldn't stop. Loneliness began eating away at his consciousness. He was all alone, having shut out everyone that cared, and he was bleeding once again.

Eventually, the anger died down and left him hollow once more. Russia was yelling on the other side of the door, near breaking it down, when America stared pensively at the floor and opened the door. Never mind he was nude, America had never cared. Russia seemed to have other thoughts on his unabashed behavior. The man entered the small room, pushing America back against the tub as he pulled out a towel and handed it to America. Automatically, America wrapped it around his waist, dotting the white fibers with dashes of red.

An empty gaze watched, uninterested, as Russia bent and pulled out a first aid kit from the bottom cabinet. A hand snapped out and seized America's upper arm, dragging him from the bathroom as he was tossed onto the bed with Russia swiftly moving to kneel between his legs. Any other time, America may have made a lewd comment. After all, he was virtually naked, save for the all too small towel already threatening to unwind from around his waist, with Russia seated before him. Nothing of the sexual nature occurred though. Russia took hold of his hand, yanking it forward, as he poured peroxide onto it, cleaning and disinfecting, before he produced a set of tweezers and got to work on removing the glass. It stung, the clear liquid bubbling as it hit the wounds on his hands, but America kept himself from making a face, even saying a word.

Only until his first hand was bandaged and second being wrapped in gauze, did America speak up, voice light but devoid of anything resembling joy, "Can you help me make this-"

He paused, unsure as to whether he really wanted to continue. This was Russia. _Russia_. What choice did he really have though? He had condemned himself to staying with Russia for his only company, unwilling to let the others closer to him see what he had become. So, why not Russia?

"Make this fucking end?" America finished lamely.

Russia kept his eyes trained to America's hand as he finished wrapping the appendage. Tucking away the supplies he had used to clean up the other man, Russia stood to replace the kit. Without looking at America, he delivered his answer, "No. Only you can do that. And you will be paying me back for breaking that mirror."

America snorted, running a bandaged hand through his hair as he leaned back and watched as Russia retreated to the bathroom. When the man didn't immediately return, America figured he was probably cleaning up the mess if the clinks of glass against glass were any indication. Flopping back onto the mattress, arms spread, America stared at the ceiling as his voice rose over the quiet din from the bathroom, "Oh my god, there must be something. _Something_ to take the pain away."

_I should really just shut up. This is Russia, like he cares_.

Yet, America couldn't stop himself. He had been cramped in the same room with Russia for a week and, though he hated to admit it, he had been taken care of quite well. When he shivered and his teeth chattered, Russia supplied him with blankets. When sleep was just a memory but he ached so badly to just close his eyes and drift off, Russia would supply the means to get to sleep. When he would whine from the pain or desire to get high once more, Russia prevented him from leaving the room or tried to distract him with distinctly _not_ Russia friendly TV programs. Russia never outright babied him, instead, the man was like a dim beacon, ever present like a celestial being clinging to the shadows but lending a hand when needed. That was the kind of caring he had wanted, not Canada or England's continuous fawning and worrying, but a more subtle type of help. One which didn't deprive him of his self-reliance completely.

"America," Russia called from the bathroom, getting America's attention, "there is nothing that I can do to make anything go away. It is up to you to fix this an-"

"And so there's nothing you can give me," America finished. Waving a hand, even if no one but himself could see the dismissive gesture, he rolled his head to the side and smiled ruefully. "It's probably better off that way."

From the other room, America could hear the remnants of the mirror being deposited into the trashcan. That's when a thought came to him, something he normally wouldn't ever try, but, hey. His other fixes had been taken from him and he needed something new. Something fresh. Something just as mind numbing and all encompassing. Maybe there was something Russia could give him.

Sitting up on slightly shaking arms, America let the towel fall from his waist as he approached the bathroom. Standing in the doorway, he watched Russia's back as the man searched for any stray shards of glass. Long ago, America had allowed himself to find Russia attractive. Muscle moved in a powerful and halting flow beneath the dark fabric of the man's sweater. Wisps of hair danced just across the base of Russia's neck, looking as if they just may be tickling in their touch. As Russia glanced over his shoulder and America hopped onto the counter top, both nations allowed themselves to be drawn into the depthless whirlpool of the others gaze.

There was an exchange between them, a long and practiced silent tradeoff between them. Words without sound and knowledge without learning. It was what they already knew and understood but what neither could properly voice. Such was their relationship, one of awkward, tentative interaction and fathomless, wordless conversations.

"Why are you naked once more? If you need clothes, I will get you some," Russia broke the quiet, voice betraying nothing.

Even his gaze steeled as he stood and straightened, trying to make his way past America. The nation upon the counter would have none of it. He needed a new fix and needed it now. His hands darted out, catching the collar of Russia's shirt as he pulled the man down and close. Reflexively, America's legs wrapped around Russia's hips, using his superior strength to keep the man pinned against him as he crushed his lips to Russia's. America didn't want to see the look on Russia's face, too frightened by what he might find, so he closed his eyes and moved his mouth against the other's, searching for release in a new form of deprivation.

Russia was unresponsive in his strong and sure hold, lips unmoving and face blank. Pulling away, America kept his eyes closed even as one side of his lips curled upward. When he spoke, his voice was more thoughtful and bitter than the blankness of before, "Just to _forget_. All I ever wanted was to forget."

"I know," Russia answered. He sounded almost sage like as he went on. "We all do at times and have all found our way of dealing with the centuries."

America snorted once more, opening his eyes as a cocky smile came up upon his lips. Tilting his head, America allowed himself to just stare at Russia while the man stared back, hands braced on either side of America on the counter as his body stood, frozen. A mash of emotions were present in Russia's gaze, but only a few America could place. There was lust and that was all he needed to know.

Leaning forward again, America connected their lips in a frenzied kiss, teeth clattering against teeth as Russia finally began to respond. He nipped at America's lip till the man parted his lips. His tongue darted inside, velvet languidly working against velvet as they played a little game of dominance. America's hands released Russia's collar, instead looping around his neck as he legs tensed and pulled Russia closer. Rough and calloused fingers worked over America's side, causing the man to shimmy and shiver pleasantly. Those wandering hands roamed the plains of skin, over the jut of his hip bones, up the rolling hills of his ribs, across the plains of his back. They parted when the need for air became too great.

Both stared once more, a flush upon both their faces, as they locked eyes and let themselves get lost in it all. Neither were sure what this was or if it was right, only knowing that something was telling them to do it. America could place where his need stemmed from but Russia found it more difficult to pin his desire on one source. There had been times during the Revolution when he wanted to lie the budding nation down and make him writhe with gentle caresses and fond words. When things went sour and the Cold War controlled them both, a desire of another kind settled in, one which egged him to shove America's face into the concrete and make the man scream. This was an entirely different sensation, akin to the feelings of the past but something collectively different than the yearnings long ago.

While Russia lost himself in his own musings, America found himself envisioning a symbolic scene involving Russia and himself. He could see himself standing on the edge of a cliff, head tilted back and staring at a starless sky with bloodshot eyes as Russia sat beside him, legs dangling over the edge. In his fantasy realm, there was no wind. There were no trees. It was just them and an endless expanse of grass and hills. The moon shone and bathed them both in dim light. They didn't look at nor touch one another. He stood, Russia sat, but they were close and a warmth settled between them. In his fantasy, America could imagine himself thinking _Who the hell are we kidding? _before he reached down, grabbed Russia's hand, and they jumped from the edge together.

Both were relieved of their thoughts as America's hips rolled. From there, things became an instinctual flurry of motion with little emotion behind each touch. America yanked Russia's shirt off and attacked the man's throat, nipping, biting, and licking at the abused flesh. All the while, Russia's mouth worked against America's shoulder, giving it the same treatment as his hands found the soft globes of America's backside. Hoisting the nation up, he easily supported America's weight as they continued their mutual assault.

Russia hooked an arm under America, jostling the man upward as his newly freed hand came up, three fingers held out to America who took them quickly into his mouth. With clumsy but persistent movements, America coated Russia's fingers as his tongue slid against the digits. Once satisfied, Russia pulled his hand free and repositioned them once more. This time, America had been ready and continued on with leaving mark after mark on Russia's throat even as a finger teased his backside before slowly pushing in. His hiss of discomfort was muffled as his tongue lapped at a vein in Russia's neck, biting dangerously hard before he began to suck on the spot in apology.

Another finger worked its way in, leaving America to release a breathless groan at the intrusion. He was impatient and painfully hard; Russia was taking far too long for his liking. Growling, America bit down on Russia's shoulders and dragged his nails across the man's back before nipping at his ear and demanding they just get on with it. Russia complied, stepping forward and turning so he could press America's back firmly against the bathroom wall. They kept their eyes averted as Russia positioned himself and slowly slid in.

America's back arched of his own accord as he dug his nails into Russia's back once more. The man grunted, unrelenting as he buried himself completely and dropped his head to rest against America's shoulders. It was then that he paused, basking in the warmth that encased him, a tight heat scattering all thought and threatening to tip him over the edge already. It had been far too long and America was impossibly tight but he forced himself to stay still, be calm, if only for America's sake even as his hips itched to pound into America mercilessly.

"Move, Red," America hissed through clenched teeth.

Despite the ache working through him and the utter discomfort, America pushed himself up before sinking back down.

With clearance to proceed, Russia began a rhythmic pace, nearly unsheathing himself before pressing fully inside once more. He could feel the damp locks of his hair clinging to his forehead as he controlled himself and methodically worked in and out of America. The other nation would have none of it, soon growing weary of the slow speed as he commanded for something faster, harder, rougher. Russia complied if only to satisfy his own need. The otherwise silent room soon filled with barely veiled groans, guttural moans, and the slap of skin against skin as Russia plowed into America, causing the man he held against the wall to twist his head from side to side.

A well placed thrust caused America to jolt and bend, hips pressing downward in a needy gesture. Juggling America in his arms, Russia aimed for the same sweet spot over and over again, wishing America would beg him for _anything_ but knowing the wanton words would never come. Any once well formed words became garbled mess as both men lost themselves. Time became immaterial, words unneeded. They panted and moved against one another, unaware of what they may have said and uncaring towards the spasms of their bodies as the finish neared and both readied to tip over the edge.

America fell first, crying out as he clung to Russia tightly and stars danced before his eyes. His head snapped back, hitting the wall. He trashed, completely lost while his hands scrambled to find purchase. As America clenched down around him, Russia snarled and bit America's throat as his hips snapped forward. He released into America, continuing on till he was spent and both were breathless.

The afterglow was short-lived as Russia pulled out with a pop and shifted America in his arms. The movement was met with a sated whine. He did his best to keep from grinning as he stole them both away from the bathroom and carefully deposited America onto the bed. He retreated once more to the bathroom, slacks hanging precariously from his hips. The snap on his trousers was quickly redone after he finished cleaning himself up, emerging once more with another clean towel in hand. He tossed the ball of white to America who caught it lazily, lifting his hips to wipe away the evidence of their act. There was an almost surreal grin upon the American's lips.

"You look so content," Russia commented.

America looked over to his companion and tossed the towel onto the floor once he was finished. Settling against the sheets once more, he gave a lazy shrug. He had succeeded in fulfilling his need to drive away pesky thoughts. Though he wasn't entirely happy, America was content with the leftover haze the sex had caused. The bright side of life hadn't found him yet, but he had the feeling he'd just gotten a taste of it if the thrumming of his body was anything to go by.

It was breathing anew. It was a feeling America had come to recognize whenever he would jump from roof to roof or shove another handful of poison into his body. A weightless release, the opening of a cage, the spreading of wings and inevitable take off to something better. Russia had pulled him out so he could breathe again, for the time being at least. For that, he was again grateful. America spent his life in the shadows of the things he tried to hide and, once more, he found himself stepping from the dark and into the light. Warmth surged through him and soothed the once present mental anguish.

He knew it wouldn't last. Eventually, he would be cast back into the shadows, but, for now, this was enough. He could be satisfied with this short stroll into the light so long as there was always the promise of fully removing himself from the darkness. Glancing over to Russia, eyes half lidded and body feeling boneless against the rough cotton sheets, he could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel and couldn't help but laugh that he was entertaining the thought of Russia being his saving grace.

* * *

**A/N: I actually have a good reason for not getting this up sooner. Ever heard of Antivir Solution Pro? Yea, it's a nasty rogue antispyware virus that's crafty as fuck and annoying as hell. Luckily, with a lot of research help from friends, my computer has been cleaned and fixed. Whoo hoo. This chapter is The Only Medicine by Scary Kids Scaring Kids and if you haven't noticed the trend where I do unfunfunf every three chapters, now you know 'cause I totally just pointed it out. Read, review, kick a virus in the balls, fuck yea.**


	10. Empty Glasses

Cravings, sex, then going back to ignoring each other or engaging in ridiculously light and meaningless conversation. That was what America's weeks spent in Russia's hotel room boiled down to. Occasionally, a rather deep topic would be brought up by Russia. The larger man tried to coax America into some sort of introspective thought, but each time he was thwarted with a well placed plead for more, and breathless whispers against the shell of his ear. America was having none of it, and saw to it each time to stop the heavy talks before they could take flight. He had become a master at dismissing Russia's attempts and always attempted to curtail the always present ache to get another hit.

This was another of the times Russia sought to bring forth intelligent conversation and, again, America refused to take part. As soon as the nation questioned America on how his life had been before, America's hand flew to Russia's lap, kneading the flesh of his thigh as he leaned in close and nibbled on the lobe of Russia's ear. Unlike all the other countless times they engaged in the repetitive action, Russia would have none of it. He leaned away and disengaged America's hand by removing it and letting it drop to the sheets.

"America," Russia's voice was calm, level, "We must talk. You must leave this room soon. I believe you are better."

America leaned back, head shaking 'no' in response as a rueful smile crossed his lips, "You got it all wrong. I always wanna get high."

Russia's face took on a sour look as he pinned America with a searching gaze. Whatever he had been searching for, he found, "I have had something mailed here. It should be here soon."

A mirrored look of distaste came upon America's face, "Look, buddy, you don't ge-"

He couldn't finish his thought. A light knocking sounded from the door and Russia stood in a fluid fashion, leaving America to nervously watch as a pit of dread pooled deep within his belly. When the man came back, after having thanked the silently frightened bell boy, he carried with him a plain brown box. There was no post marking on the box and, as Russia set it on the edge of the bed and began tearing at the tape sealing it, America began to fidget. Whatever Russia had gotten mailed over, America was nearly positive he wouldn't be thrilled to see it.

One hand shot out and seized Russia's wrist before the man could pry open the top of the box. A pointed look was shot America's way even as he gripped harder, intent on deterring Russia. No such thing came. One sat, one stood, both maintained a challenging stare, willing the other to back down but neither caved in to the others silent demand. Russia's free hand came over and pried the top of the box open before it delved inside and pulled out a worn and tattered album. He shoved the musty item beneath America's nose, insistent that he take it.

If ever questioned, America would deny his hands were quivering as he reached out with both and took it. To be honest, he had no idea what the album contained, only vaguely knowing that it was filled with photographs. With a sharp inhale, he peeled the cover back just as the book settled in his lap. The pictures which greeted him were faded, black and white: old. They were from decades back, maybe even a century. He couldn't quite place the time, too mesmerized by his own reflection staring out from the photo.

He looked so young. Texas was no where to be seen and life radiated from him. Faintly, America could recall the photo being taken. It had been in the times when it took ages for the photo to be engrained. England had scolded him for smiling but the defiance in him kept his resolve steeled and he smiled. Afterward, his face had ached but it had been worth it.

Turning the page, he was met with more photos of a similar sort. As the pages progressed, so did the history behind each picture. It was like an evolution of his life, the past imprinted in paper. Nostalgia washed over him, consumed him. His hands ceased their trembling as he began flipping the pages with renewed vigor. They were filled with faded pictures of the life he had once loved so much. It was painful to look, to see how sincerely he shown with joy, but America pressed himself onward and felt helpless to stop.

Another turn of the page and, in a flash, those moments of simple contentment were gone. He didn't recognize the place but could guess the time period: just after the first World War. Alone he stood, leaning against a column with hands in pockets and looking almost carefree if it weren't for the saddened tilt to his wilted smile and the embarrassed down turn of his gaze. The sun was bright and the sky cloudless. For all purposes, it looked like it had been a nice day but it was the day America had been written off as a child once more, ideals carelessly tossed to the weigh side with the excuse that he had no idea what he was talking about. The European nations had been vicious that day when he talked of softer punishment for Germany; his words had fallen on deaf ears. He hated that day.

He continued flipping the pages, unwilling to focus on one thing any longer. His eyes scanned the photos unseeingly. There were some with he and Russia, though they were rare. Many he stood beside England or Canada. A few scattered throughout showed him with Japan, China, France, and a whole cast of the other nations he had interacted with at one point. Whatever magic he had possessed in the earlier photographs was thoroughly gone and even his attempts at ignoring the glaringly obvious decline failed. As he turned and turned the pages, America began to watch his own free fall.

"I gave up all I had for something that never brought me any comfort," America muttered, voice hollow as he continued until there were no more taunting reminders. Solemnly, he shut the album and set it aside, huffing as he rested his forehead in hand and curled into himself, "I've been lost too long."

"Da, you have," Russia put in.

He wasn't being kind or gentle; his voice held a note of authority and finality. Russia had disconnected from America, choosing to linger just beside the bed as he stood, unmoving and unshakable. America refused to look up. An epiphany was sounding and he was struggling to hear its call.

Denying it any longer was impossible. Looking back on the past few months, America couldn't help but feel totally alone with his misery. In an attempt to shield himself from cruelty, he had pushed away those who cared and put on a well constructed act to ensure he would be unbothered by external forces. He always hated this place, the place his mind went to when recollections of recent times hit him full force and left him gasping and writhing, desperate to get away but never finding anything to hold onto, constantly gripping for dear life. In all his years of living, America had never once played with the idea that his rapid decline would end with him a drug addict sitting Russia's hotel room. There was no denying it though; that was where he had ended up, as strange as it was and as utterly convoluted as the path had been.

America glanced up at Russia and could see nothing. He was another nameless face America's mind refused to place or acknowledge because, so long as he could force himself into ignorance, things didn't seem so bad.

Things were that bad; he couldn't deny it.

In a fit of rage and confusion, he had taken up years and years of practice to try and soothe the mental wounds aching and throbbing, silently begging for some sort of relief. At each meeting, so many years ago, he turned a blind eye towards the hurtful actions of the others. If he didn't take the bait or just ignored it all, then things would be alright. It had worked for some time but soon even that began to cave in, crushed with the weight of ever growing worry and self loathing. That was when he took up roof jumping, finding the practice to be blissfully freeing. That to had been fleeting, soon leaving him with nothing.

Again, he had scrambled to seize something, something to help raise him from the muck slowly devouring him as he felt himself slip farther and farther from the man everyone believed him to be. That life line came in the form of mind altering substances and it had worked, hadn't it? When high, America could push all thought and reason aside as he just basked in a continual after glow. When the unavoidable crash came, he found a new, temporary release in harming his body. So long as it hurt, he could ignore the more pressing pain echoing in his skull.

As much as he wanted to say it had worked, that he could keep going as soon as he snagged enough money for a plane ride home and escape Russia, because, though the sex was good enough, he knew it would eventually end. Whatever bliss he had found in drugs was gone, dead, smothered by a new revelation of just what he had been doing to all the others. Those who cared, those who still really gave a damn. He had thrown it all in their faces, choosing instead to wall himself up with one of the more unlikely candidates and refusing to show himself, lest the mocking begin anew and he find himself stranded with no means of escape.

"Why the fuck did you bring this here?" America ground out, holding up the album before he threw it to the floor. "Honestly, that's pretty low, even for you."

The words were bitter but he had reached the end of his rope, the empty pages on the end of his patience. He couldn't move on, couldn't leave this part of his lengthy life behind. At least, not yet. There was something eating away at him still, a virus worming its way through his system and corrupting bit by bit until he felt as if he would soon crash. Words couldn't explain where it came from and thought failed to put it into any sort of communicable medium.

_I don't need this bullshit. Russia is just fucking with me. Asshole_, his mind supplied. Despite the venom with which he spat the words within the recess of his mind, America knew the words he hadn't said, only allowing himself to mentally swell upon, were wrong. The new understanding of himself smacked into him, making him turn his head from Russia as he shifted on the bed and found his mind in turmoil as it tried to scrap together some sort of intelligent thought. _Fuck_.

"To help you feel more connected to-" Russia never got to finish his reasoning.

America's head whipped back, now out of his hand as he sat straight and fixed a fiery gaze upon Russia, entire being flaring up like a raging bull, "I never needed to feel connected!" It was a childish denial and they both knew it.

"It has gone on too long, America, this new little habit of yours," Russia cut in just as America began to speak. A croak died in the young man's throat as Russia continued on, "You need to find a way to just move on, one that doesn't _use_ others or destroy you."

Oh, so Russia was bitter about his new coping device.

"Just shut the hell up!" America roared, agitation rearing up, "I'm tired of you wishing me the best! We're not even close. Fuck, I would have slit your throat like, twenty years back."

Russia's eyes narrowed and fingers flexed at his side, drawing up into fists. When he spoke, he sounded composed and almost light-hearted. If it weren't for the deadly undertones soaking through, America would have thought the once proud Russia had submissively rolled over and given up the argument. America was grateful he hadn't and relished that eerily sweet smile Russia wore just then. This was normal. What they had been putting on before, that was abnormal. Normal, America could deal with, could place and categorize without having to worry about any plot twists or embarrassingly new interactions. He had been mostly ignoring Russia's presence because of a deep rooted fear of something _new_ and _unexplored_, but dangerously destructive, being unearthed. With his mind in shambles, America refused to delve into it. The adventurer in him had been completely deterred because of an unconquerable fear.

"As I would have done to you," Russia paused for a moment, nostrils flaring as his head cocked to the side, "though slitting your throat would have merciful."

Enough. America couldn't deal with this sort of talk. He had already been shaken by the photo album and now he and Russia were at odds. Why he was so pissed, America did not know. The Cold War had been a mind fuck fest where both sides decided to play dirty, and savagely wished the other to a gory grave. It wasn't news to him that Russia had thought of some gruesome things during that time. Hell, he doubted even Russia could top some of the things that floated through his mind in that half century.

Something about it just made him angry, made him seethe.

Made him want to lash out.

Lash out America did. He could no longer contain himself as he swung out at Russia, strike easily dodged by the nation. It just pissed him off further. Using his own hand, America swung out in quick succession, catching Russia across the cheek and watching in mute satisfaction as his back slammed against the wall and slumped forward.

Russia drew a hand up, feeling at his cheek and tasting copper on his tongue. Looking up through long lashes, he threw his weight forward and threw a solid right hook. The blow caught America on the nose. Unready and too blinded by rage to fight properly, America stumbled back, hand going to his nose as it freely bled, a pained hiss leaving his lips. The look in America's eyes, the betrayal and shock, were enough to make Russia almost regret hitting him. Even as his cheek throbbed, Russia silently pitied America and just how lost the boy seemed.

The look was quickly wiped away as America reached over the bedside stand and took Russia's cell phone. With ease, America flipped it open with his unoccupied hand and pressed the plastic to his ear. Russia didn't bother to listen to the conversation, nor could he find the will to care who America was calling. Over the past few weeks, his patience with the nation had been slowly fraying as he was kept in London in a cramped hotel room with a man who insisted on watching mind numbing television or paid him enough mind from time to time to engage in activities of the inappropriate sort. Whoever America had called, he was just praying it would get the nation away from him, if only for a short while. Taking care of an infant lost its charm quickly, Russia had found.

He went to the bathroom and retrieved a fresh towel. Coming out, he tossed it to America so the man could properly clean up his nose and hands. No doubt he had broken America's nose and, undoubtedly, America had broken his jaw. So far as he could tell, their short spat had ended on fair terms. When America caught the towel, he tossed the cell phone Russia's way, nearly missing entirely as he pulled his hand away and replaced it with the plush, white material.

Carefully, America avoided Russia's gaze as he stood and picked up what very few belongings he had. Wordlessly, America pried open the hotel door and strode out, slamming the door behind him. His feet pattered against the carpeting, relishing the feel of freedom but dreading the cost at which it was going to come. Though he could have left Russia at any time, something had been holding him back but that had been severed.

Pushing open the front doors, ignoring the worried questions of a worker, America stood just outside the doors and waited for England to arrive. It would be a long ride, a long, long, ride, to England's house. America almost wasn't sure he was ready for it but as he plunged one hand into the depths of his pocket and bored his eyes into the pavement, America knew he had to.

He hated having to do anything.

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**A/N: I am so very, very sorry. This chapter has been done for a long while and was actually edited by both Shatterdoll and Cera Lennox The Insane because of a very unfortunate accident with Yahoo. Goddamn, I hate Yahoo even more now. But, anyway, I'm not fond of this chapter, terribly sorry it reads sort of. . . Disjointed. I've been quite busy lately, so I'll try and pick up the pace. Song is Empty Glasses by Scary Kids Scaring Kids. Read, review, smack a bitch.**


	11. Chemistry of a Car Crash

As he stood there waiting, America couldn't help but let his mind wander. His thoughts turned from the doom and gloom of finally coming face to face with his former keeper to Russia's subtle kindness. Somehow, in those weeks he had spent holed up in that room, something had been awoken within him. It was a part of himself he hadn't known existed and, even now, America was unable to put a name to it. The aggravatingly confusing thoughts caused the nation to shake his head, trying to rid himself of it. Whatever bond he had formed with Russia was now over.

Those hands splayed across his back, hugging him close after a rather rough round, America had never felt so invincible. He hadn't felt weak for being held or bashful for returning the gesture. There was no sappiness, just a contented quiet which America had been seeking for so, so long.

That was over now and thinking on it would get him nowhere. With another shake of the head, America looked down the road. What he shared with Russia was now far away, intangible. He had to forget those weeks spent with Russia or he knew, just knew, a new sort of depression would set in and eat him away from the inside out. So, instead, he watched the road and slowly let the dread built in his stomach as he saw that all too familiar vehicle come bolting down the road.

"Lovely," America breathed, hunching his shoulders before standing tall and steeling his nerves.

What was to come certainly would, whether he was ready for it or not. He may as well look ready. Putting on a smile, America stepped to the curb just as the car gave a violent lurch and stopped a few feet ahead of America. England climbed from the driver side, looking absolutely furious. His massive brows were drawn together and ever present scowl set in place as one finger pointed accusingly at America, mouth opening and closing to try and find the proper words.

For once, England's eloquence fled him, "What the fuck happened?"

America chuckled, moving around to the passenger side as he yanked open the door and fell unceremoniously into the seat. Leaning back and adjusting the seat to just the right reclining angle, America set his feet on the dash, if only to infuriate England further.

"Russia popped me in the nose," America shrugged, lop sided grin looking sincere.

"You- you were with Russia?" England squawked, climbing back into the car and shutting the door. "Why in the blazes were you with him?"

Another careless shrug, "I've been with him pretty much the entire time. Sort of."

England's hands came up and gripped the steering wheel, tight. His knuckles turned a sickly white; his face taking on a rather red hue. While the conversation may have been pushing a little more than a few of England's buttons, America was thoroughly enjoying himself. He could deal with this England. The back and forth, the quick temper, these things were familiar. What America couldn't handle was England extending a hand, smiling sweetly, and trying to fix him. There was nothing else that would have made America spring up quite as fast and run far, far away.

There was silence following America's remark. The nervousness settled once more as America turned his eyes towards the window and watched the London streets go by. He had no idea where they were going, only that they were leaving the city. Though curious, America didn't dare look to his companion. He was too frightened the lividity once present would be gone. Anger he could deal with.

They traveled on in silence. America had no idea how long they had been out, only that the sun had set and all color slipped away as twilight took over. The stars glistened from their pedestal in the sky, seeming to mock America as he reached a hand up and made a pinching motion towards one of the brighter specks. Contrary to popular belief, America wasn't all that thrilled by space. He resented the stars, knowing he would never be able to touch them. It was painful to want and want and know he would never soar high enough, reach far enough, to just grasp one of those stars and revel in the accomplishment. The sky was his home, where he could soar through the clouds and feel so out of touch with the world below, but the stars were just a mocking mask of beauty sitting in the once blue skies he loved so dearly.

Closing his eyes, America could almost imagine he was flying. The car dipped and gently swerved as they sped down the empty, well kept streets. Hill after hill, he could see himself with arms spread wide as he went from cloud to cloud, far above everything else. That's what he wanted: to fly. No gauges all around, no radio or oxygen mask perched on his face, no metal keeping him from completely dissolving into the sky and becoming one with the heavens. He could melt into the air, become the clouds, be completely absorbed, and feel at home.

Opening his eyes, reality set in once more. America was not amongst the clouds, he was sitting in a car with England and wanting a right fuck or a good high. He was seated in an all too firm chair with his hand against the cool glass and eyes staring vacantly at the outline of long grass fields. His arms were not outstretched; they sat forevermore pressed at his side, leaving him immobile and unable to break free. It hurt to realize the truth.

There were no words. None quite fit the situation no matter how much America wanted to break the overly oppressive quiet. All the things he wanted to say had been taken away. Whatever emotion he could have attempted to convey to England would have fallen flat. He knew England didn't feel the same, couldn't have ever felt the same. They were different people with centuries of knowledge and experience behind them, but he and England were on a different axis, rotating around the same source but forever kept apart by the differences which made them unique. America doubted England could comprehend his need to become one with the sky. The notion of letting go England would understand, but not the pressing need to free fall and never feel the sickening slap of the earth beneath his feet.

"Just go and say what's in your head and I won't try to stop you," America finally allowed himself.

He could keep his own thoughts veiled yet still force the silence away. That was enough for America as he rested his head in hand and waited for England to speak. Had things not felt so fundamentally awkward, America's impatience would have caused his fingers to tap against his thigh or the glass. As it were, he sat motionless, unsure what to do with himself as he waited.

There came a sigh from beside him. He wanted to look over to England, see his face, and try to decipher just what was to come. The motion was disallowed by his mind, still subconsciously fretting over England's potential mood. There were prayers for more annoyance, irritation, something unkind. He couldn't deal with mother-henning, not now. England held the rights America had never owned. The man could drive America deeper into his spiral, send him off to some dark place where his anger roared to life and depression clawed at him. America had never been trusted with such power, but by opening the floor to England, he had handed over that right. Whether England consciously took it or not, America was still waiting to find out.

"I just don't understand, America."

England spoke softly, words edged in agitation but desperately trying so hard to be caring. He had been hoping to lull America into trusting him enough to open up, to somehow project the worry and desire to help. Glancing over, he watched America's listless face. There was no obvious response, just his former charge staring out the window with a vacant gaze and plastic grin. His heart sunk, hands loosening on the wheel.

Though he hated the silence, America was unsure what to say. It seemed England would not continue on and he had nothing to say. There were thoughts but none left his lips. What could he say? He hadn't expected England to understand, for anyone to. America didn't want any of them to comprehend it. Somehow, it felt like some deeply personal secret he needed to keep hidden. No one could know or it would lose its charm and become meaningless. He had to say something though. Hating it, America opened his mouth and shooed the quiet away with the gentle rise and fall of his voice.

"I've just never felt so alien. Like I'm all alone and..."

And what?

America couldn't answer his own internal question. In all honesty, he had no idea. The past few months, he had been unpleasantly coasting through life. A chunk of time was lost to him, memories too clouded over for him to decipher them properly. Even within Russia's care, nothing quite seemed concrete. The days had blurred together, each like the last and the next. Nothing really set them apart from one another. Like a horrid dream, America had watched his life go by, just a third person who looked away and missed something vital in the performance. It left him confused and disorientated, not sure what he meant or why he did it. Even America was still trying to catch up to the storyline. England didn't understand and he would get no proper explanation. America was simply incapable of giving him one.

Another sigh, more forlorn than the last. There was a weary undertone to the minute sound, a hint of the scolding to come bubbling just beneath the surface. When England called his name once more, America knew he could take no more of it. England was not going to reprimand him. He was unsure what the man was going to say, but his overly concerned tone conveyed enough of the intent to send America on edge as he stiffened and quickly spoke up, cutting England off from saying anything more than his name.

"Look, I really don't-"

"No, you look!"

There it was, the anger. America turned his head away, allowing himself a tiny grin. This he could deal with. So long as England stayed irritated, America could deal with their interaction.

"Don't tear us apart again, America."

Solemn.

It was the only word which America could use to describe England as he finally looked over. The man's hands were once more holding the steering wheel in a vice like grip, knuckles white again. His eyes were downcast, shielded by shadows and the shrubbery he called eyebrows. The lines of his shoulders were sharp, tense, but his arms hung slack and defeated even as his mouth pulled into a tight line. For a moment, America thought he was going to be subjected to a tirade of sweet words, caring reassurances, and unwanted emotional prying.

When England spoke, there was none of it. Only annoyance.

"What's the use of it," England mumbled, turning his head away.

He could feel America's eyes burrowing into the side of his skull, needing to look away to prevent them from locking gazes and exchanging something potentially dangerous between them. They danced upon pins and needles, each restraining themselves from saying what needed to be said and healing the new wounds brought forth. The divide between them opened wide, threatening to swallow them both, as they purposely avoided all things potentially helpful for fear of something neither could or would name.

Light flooded the street ahead, another car coming down the road. It was too bright for America and he turned his eyes away. They were not okay, he could feel it. Something was crumbling between them and he felt the need to somehow wrap his hands around it and just hold it together. Losing England to some invisible force prying them further from one another would be another trauma America knew he would handle poorly. He had to salvage the situation.

Reaching out a hand, America lightly touched England's hand. They both yelled as England's body jerked, hands unrelenting in their hold on the wheel as the car darted into the opposing lane. Eyes going wide, America seemed to watch what unfolded with childlike curiosity and uncomprehending awe.

The car rammed into the other vehicle, both slamming into one another head on. The light had blinded America, causing him to close his eyes. His body sprang forward, barely restrained by the seatbelt he had fastened upon climbing into England's car. The material cut into his chest, forcing the air from him as his forehead connected with the dash board. White flourished as his eyelids fluttered, unseeing as he watched a splatter of blood slowly creep down the dash. His legs were pressed tightly against the seat, squished into an awkward angle. One arm was caught between the crushed metal of the window, unable to move as glass bit into his wrist. The other sat at his side, useless.

Their ride was not over yet. The force propelled both cars from one another. The other car, nameless driver slumped over the wheel and unmoving, slid into the ditch, horn blaring. America watched with mute horror as the pavement morphed into the night sky. He stared out the shattered glass of the windshield as the car rolled, pushing the roof down onto the top of his head. England was saying something, screaming, but America's mind couldn't make out the words. Metal scraped against the road, deafening. For a moment, it seemed they would continue rolling, but America mutely realized they had come to a stop as he watched the motionless form of the stars in the night sky.

All the elements had been completed and now the silence pervaded once more. England was silent at America's side, blindly searching for his cell phone with a bloodied hand. It was all chemistry of a car crash. The reaction had completed, leaving only the products to show for the nasty collision both parties had just encountered. As America's eyes drifted towards the other vehicle then to England, still hanging upside down, he tallied up the death toll: one.

There was a huff from England's side of the vehicle. America's attention was once more drawn to the Brit. Despite the steadily bleeding cuts across his face and the bloodied mess of his arm, England looked his usual self if not a bit shaken. He was on the phone, presumably getting help. There were sharp words exchanged, mostly from England's end. Once the task was complete, he tossed the mangled but functional device out of sight, looking over to America.

That's when America noted something was wrong. There was a far off look to England's eyes, an unseeing quality signifying something very, very wrong. His eyes were glazed, staring at America but seeing through him or not seeing at all. England may as well have been blind as his features softened and he reached out for America's free hand. They connected clumsily, fingers lacing together after a few fumbling tries at hooking them together.

"I won't try to convince you to stay with me and let me help," England began, voice sounding hoarse as he fought the urge to cough. The wheel had been forcefully pressed into his chest, no doubt breaking ribs and causing havoc within his body. "This time I'm not going to try and force comfort on you and I won't change the way I act around you."

America wanted to tell England to shut up, that he had an obvious head injury. Whatever England was saying would be forgotten or regretted later. They were false proclamations brought about by an extreme situation but, no matter how much he tried to convince himself, America couldn't tell England to shut his mouth. His mouth sat in a firm line, lips unmoving as he watched England continue on as England's lids fell to half mast.

"This time, if you want to get away, I won't try to stop you or anything. You're all grown up now and can make your own decisions-"

America squeezed England's hand, signifying an end to the conversation. The silence that followed was unlike the one before. There was a calm between them as both succumbed to the throbbing within their skulls. America let a lazy smile grace his lips as he squeezed the hand within his own once more.

"Come on, stay awake, England," America called, almost taunting, challenging.

England returned the grin, wincing as the gesture pulled a rather nasty gash on his cheek, "Wouldn't dream of drifting off, you git."

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**A/N: Ohhh, fml. I'm at my dad's in an entirely different US state, so. Updates, yea. We'll see, I'll definitely try my hardest, but please don't get angry at me if I fail at it. Anyway. I have a love hate with this chapter. Like it, but kinda don't like it. Enjoy regardless maybe? Song is Chemistry of a Car Crash by Shiny Toy Guns, beta'd by Shatterdoll. Read, review, do the dirty.**


	12. No Regrets

America wanted a story. Something grand, something novel. Anything. The smell of antiseptic and the constant staring at white walls was beginning to get to him. For the last three days he had declined any visitors, figuring the ensuing hell and further judgment of the others would be too much for his still teetering—and he had long ago accepted that he stood on the edge of some larger chasm—mind to properly process and deal with. Thus, he had been subjected to a scent that burned his nose, a constant light that seared his retinas, and the bits of drab conversation he could squeeze from the occasional nurse that wandered in.

So long as he refused visitors, the boredom would not be easily cursed. As it turned out, the accident had been worse than he'd first thought. At the time, he hadn't thought much of anything. After all, shock did wonders for convincing someone they were just fine. America had been no exception. After passing out in the ambulance, having a surgeon drill into his skull, and several damaged bones and organs patched up, he had to thank shock for being a dear and dulling the pain.

He was faced with a larger problem, though: four more days in the hospital. Nations healed relatively quickly and were exempt from the whole morality deal, usually. His wounds were not the source of his concern but, rather, the lack of anything engaging to occupy his mind. Time and time again his mind had wandered to powders and pills, needles and knives. All the fun things he had deprived himself of for the past...America didn't even know how long. Time had been abandoned, a trivial matter he found himself uncaring towards.

The musing ended when one of the kinder nurses came in, announcing herself loudly, "Mr. Jones! You're awake this time, fantastic!"

She got a slight up turn of the lips for her boisterous troubles. Their routine was well practiced. He would ask her polite questions, she would offer over-energetic answers. It was refreshing but incredibly grating on his slowly fraying nerves. Later, when everything had blown over, he was going to have to apologize to everyone. Nice Nurse, as America had never asked her name, acted much as he had.

"How is your da-"

Apparently, pleasant conversation was not on Nice Nurse's agenda for the day. While checking his IV, she gave the inserted needle a sharp tug, bringing forth a surprised yip from America. When she looked up, there was a bright smile as she yanked again.

"Oops, looks like I'll have to reset this," she feigned ignorance of her deliberate acts as she continued the conversation and her job. "So, ready to take any visitors yet? You've got a waiting list as long as the liver transplant list, pal."

"Told you, don't want to see anyone," America groused, turning his head away and pouting like a child. Damn nurse and her damn "oops".

Nice Nurse roughly yanked the IV from his arm, causing America to wince once more._ It's going to be one of those days_, he thought bitterly.

"And why's that?" While her tone was cheerful, the underlying message of 'Answer me honestly or I'll stab you so hard you cry' was clearly received by America. "You don't strike me as the loner type."

America gave a one armed shrug, still looking off towards the wall as she placed the IV, gentle this time, as she left a lingering touch of his forearm. It was meant to be comforting, encouraging. Heaving a sigh, America shrugged again as he debated on just feeding the woman bullshit. He was a good enough liar, who was to say she'd ever figure out the truth.

"We all just changed," he supplied vaguely. Knowing Nice Nurse, she would find out and find another excuse to jab him with more needles. "We all sort of...lived our lives together and now we're just estranged."

A dubious look was fixed his way, "Uh huh. Well, I'm letting at least a couple come in. They're really worried. Just deal with it." 'Or I'll shove in a needle so big, your grandchildren would feel it' hung in the air as an unvoiced threat.

He had faced war and been staring down the barrel of a gun too many times to count, but the look Nice Nurse fixed him with made him squirm uncomfortably and nod mutely. Who knew a woman could look so harmless yet be so evil? A familiar face appeared before his eyes. It was quickly waved away by his own consciousness, unwilling to dwell on it any longer. That man be damned. America didn't need his bull, not now and not ever.

The nurse left and, as promised, she allowed several visitors in. First had been Canada, looking overly anxious and unsure what to say. America didn't even get one word in before his brother snapped, a flood of snarky comments coming forth. Once the incident was over with, Canada had lowered his head and America had requested a pillow fluff. The task was done wordlessly. Canada had barely touched the offered pillow when America demanded he leave.

Next came Japan, looking stoic as always. There were no pleasantries or questions. America asked if Japan could hand him the glass of water sitting at arms length. The nation reached for the requested drink only to quickly be dismissed. The hurt flashed across Japan's face before the man bowed and took his leave.

America screamed for no more visitors, looking bitter as he pouted petulantly at the wall.

His request went unheeded as Russia came into the room. Irritation danced behind his violet gaze as he smiled politely and took a seat beside America in a lone chair beside the bed. There was silence, not uncomfortable but tense enough to cause the hospitalized nation to shift and attempt to find a more comfortable spot to endure the quiet. Eventually, the game of Find a Spot on the Bed That_ Doesn't _Make My Ass Sore grew old as America settled and looked over to Russia.

"Would you hand me the bed remote?" America questioned, tilting his head to the side table.

He could have easily gotten it himself. The aforementioned item sat on the edge of the hardwood. Wishing, praying, America looked back to Russia and just hoped the man didn't get up to hand him the remote. Anyone else would have, everyone else would have. Everyone else would have been asked to leave if they did. Russia was not everyone else.

The man laughed, real smile coming to his lips, "Get it yourself, America."

The addressed nation smiled, truly smiled, as he looked down at the blankets covering his lower half. Russia would be allowed to stay. "I didn't lose my mind or anything, you know. It was mine to give away. I chose this."

Russia nodded, humoring America as the nation connected their gazes once more. He continued on, face blank, "England was always busy with stuff. He couldn't stay to watch the times I cried and shit, not that I really let him. He didn't have the time, anyway, so I just...slipped away."

"_Da_," Russia allowed, looking nonchalant as he intently stared at America and willed the man to go on.

America shrugged, looking away. He felt ill at ease sharing these things with Russia, but they came so easily and the thoughts begged to be voiced. There was no sympathy, no compassion from Russia and, for that, he was chosen to be privy to some of America's innermost musings. They were on equal terms, level footing. The others would trip over themselves to fulfill his wishes, to help the ailing nation. America would have none of it and neither would Russia. For that, America became endeared to Russia.

"I've got no regrets about any of it. Those things don't work. Regrets only hurt and I'm tired of hurting," the nation's gaze was drawn back to Russia. "Sing me a love song."

The words were quick, hurried. The idea had come from nowhere, a whim brought forth by the rapidly turning gears of his mind. He just needed someone to drop him a line, send him a signal, bring him back. A hand to grasp, an idea to cling to, anything he could tether himself to subtly. His pride would not accept blatant assistance, and Russia knew that.

Russia sang. America couldn't place the song nor understand the majority of its content. He didn't feel like translating. His mind was reeling as he leaned back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling listlessly. Russia was not the best of singers but it was enough. Closing his eyes, America lost himself in the moment. Whether it truly was a love song or not, America didn't particularly care. Love or not, he knew something could be forged between he and Russia.

Maybe that was just his point of view. There was always a chance Russia didn't feel the same. For all America knew, the man could have been singing some spiteful ditty, meant to offend rather than sway hearts. Whatever it was though, somehow wordlessly told him he was doing fine, he was doing well. That he could make it through. There were many things music could convey but America had never associated reassurance with it.

The song ended and so did America's high. His eyes opened once more, greeted by all too bright light and an intense stare directed his way. Turning his head, America stared blankly, unseeing. There was nothing to see. Russia sat there, by his side but out of his reach. Walls and windows and flooring boxed him in, immovable and seemingly eternal. There must have been something in America's stare.

Russia breached a topic neither wished to venture towards, "I know from the outside we look good for each other, but I cannot shake the feeling things would go wrong, America."

He nodded, unsure what to say. The same feeling clumped in the pit of his stomach, drawing in downcast thinking and adding it to the brewing sense of foreboding that was building. Something was tugging him to argue though, to dispel Russia's qualms. Though his feelings on the budding, but hopefully well concealed, dependency he was developing towards the other man should have been carefully concealed, his face had betrayed him once more. He ruefully thought that, perhaps, it was for the best.

"I don't want to hate anymore Russia but that's all life left me with. Everything's just given me a bitter after taste and some fucking unachievable fantasy of how we used to live." He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. "You make those things go away, kind of. And that's more than anyone else has done."

From behind shut lids, America saw the photographs from earlier. In each one, he and the others had been laughing, all laughing and looking so lame. Those were the times of their lives were things were simple and life took on a completely different countenance. It had been a blast but all good things came to end. All things sweet eventually turned bitter; they rotted and began to putrefy.

Maybe he could revive what was long gone. If only to soothe his own mind and bring back some semblance of familiarity and comfort. He wished for the times of bliss when he would sail across the plains, bareback on a wild steed, with Russia in tow. Where he could walk down the streets and feel the bite of rocks against the soft pads of his feet. Where the world seemed to stop and looking up at the starry sky didn't hurt so much because the dreams of one day reaching out a seizing one of those brightly shining lights were still plausible.

There had always been something with Russia that made the world seem right. Everything he wanted to be, a young America could find within old Russia. Time and again he had walked away from Russia, from the world, and never looked back. His own growing ego would cloud his judgment and set a distorted film before his eyes as he gazed at the others with contempt and superiority. There had always been something with Russia though; something that caused him to smear the lines of them and him so Russia could squeeze between the two and meld within the created gray area.

Every time Russia had told him to leave, America had wanted to stay. Every time Russia looked at him and smiled, whether it be authentic or acidicly sweet, America was drawn closer. He had felt so vacant lately, been treated like a misbehaving and brainless child by the others. With Russia, America could laugh and love it, smile and love it. He would often sit and think about the other man for a good while but every time those thoughts would be pushed aside, passed by, in favor of someone else. England, Canada, France, Germany, anyone and everyone so long as his thoughts strayed from Russia.

Those feelings had been swept under the rug long ago. Kept under wraps for fear of rejection or the ensuing turmoil of any potential, real relationship. America couldn't take those way back when, not even when the world was right and he didn't feel so let down by everything. Now, after spending those weeks with Russia, they had returned. Full force, barreling in, and America lay at the mercy of his own emotions and had no idea how to convey or properly deal with them. He felt lost and abandoned, like a slave to his own mind.

America opened his eyes once more, staring at Russia and trying to say what he refused to voice. His message must have gotten across as he watched Russia avert his gaze for the first time. The man heaved a sigh, shoulders sagging as he stared at the floor tiles almost pensively. Things took on a decidedly awkward feel. Now it was America staring expectantly, silently imploring and inwardly wringing his fingers as he waited for some sort of sign.

None came.

Maybe the love he once felt was dead, but something new was beginning to bud in the recess of America's chest. It spread a soothing wave of healing light throughout his consciousness and quelled the chaos of his mind. For a moment, there was order but as the seconds dragged on and Russia sat unmoving, the feeling began to fade and that giddy joy a young boy gets when his playground crush hands him a gift began to fade. The warmth fled and he felt numb once more. There would be no lifeline, no silent agreement to move forward with something that may not even exist.

Still, America stared, hopeful.

Russia looked back, looking pained and convicted. He nodded mutely before standing and making his way from the room.

That was enough for America. Painfully slow, he pressed his head into the pillow and shut his eyes once more, intent on finding rest. A sluggish and dazedly sated smile worked on the corners of his mouth as he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

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**A/N:. . . Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry. How do I go from once a day updates to missing a number of days? Gah, fuck. Sorry, I had suddenly found myself in possession of a social life once more but that phase is over and done with. Back to being a hermit, yay. Anyway, I'm not so enthused by this chapter whatsoever. So apologies for, what I consider, a shitty chapter after having to wait so long. Oh yea, if you think '_OMFG, things are soooo going to get cute and fluffy from here_' - ERRRRRRRRRR, wrong. If anything, it's going to get more horrendously painful. Least, I hope so. Edited by the super duper fantastically awesome Shatterdoll. Holla at my girl, she good at writing fo' show. The song is No Regrets by Robbie Williams and, say, would anyone be interested if I put together a downloadable folder of the tracks used so far? Sort of like a FST. Read, review, American slang sucks.**


	13. Happy Go Lucky

Images blurred and merged with one another as a traffic of sights and sounds bombarded America. The hospital had become a monotonous blob, only broken by the ripping of the needle in his arm and a gust of chilling autumn air. The streets of London were unimpressive and the people were unremarkable, each face blending with another still a solid mass ebbed all around him. He couldn't even recall entering the airport, demanding a ticket to New York City, and boarding with a smaller horde of faceless entities. Somewhere, along the way, he had fallen asleep only to wake what seemed to be a short while later.

His feet had propelled him up and through the crowd, leading him from the plane and airport back to his abandoned flat. Absently, he had checked his mail slot on the way in. A wad of backed up mail sat waiting, no doubt more ready to be stuffed into his mailbox once more room could be conjured up. He took the mail wordlessly and went to the sixth floor. The neighbors had thrown questioning glances but said nothing. Alfred Jones, as non-nations knew him, had always appeared to be a creature of odd habits after all.

Autopilot took over then. He unlocked the door and moved inside, depositing his stack of bills, junk mail, and assorted letters of both casual and professional content on the table in the kitchen before moving about and opening the blinds and windows. The room had smelled musty, the light all too bright. When he picked up the receiver and dialed his boss, the ring ring ring obnoxiously echoed through the otherwise silent apartment. The conversation had been short, rather tense, but America managed to keep himself composed and curt as he apologized and promised to get straight to work.

Six days after he arrived home, America still hadn't fulfilled his promise. The phone rang from time to time, the messages building, but they were dutifully ignored in favor of a tub of Kemp's Double Fudge Moose Tracks and a stack of DVDs so large and diverse even the most dedicated of collectors would be in awe at the mountain precariously swaying beside the nest of blankets and pillows America had dumped onto the floor.

Some romance movie blared from the TV speakers. A woman sank to knees, sobbing loudly as the love of her life left off to war. She was screaming something about love, about how she had given all her love to him and she was so sure they were meant for one another. America scoffed, jabbing another spoonful of the overly sweet treat into his gob, Shuffling further under the blankets and burying his head between twin mounds of plush pillows, he watched with lazy interest.

Ten minutes later, the once sobbing like a four-year-old woman received a letter, stating that her boyfriend had been killed in action. America readied himself for another crying fit, already in mid eye-roll when the actress's laugh rang clear and bright. He looked back to the screen, interest perked as he listened.

_"I guess I never saw it coming baby," she giggled. Sighing wistfully, her eyes went skyward, "I thought we'd be together forever but. . . Now I'm over the surprise. Just come back to me, body bag and all."_

His chest squeezed painfully as America scrambled to stop the movie and insert another. He cursed when his fingers fumbled the disk. Uncaring, he grabbed at the stack and pulled free a new film to watch. It was some poorly made, low budget action flick: perfect. Jamming it into the DVD player, America crawled back to his nest of misery with ice cream seated in his lap, spoon dangling from his mouth, and remote held out to quickly move through the opening trailers.

Pressing play, America was ready to let the pillows and blankets eat him whole when a knock at the door caused him to curse loudly and shove his eating utensil back into the ice cream as he stumbled to be freed of the fabric death trap. Another knock sounded, irritating America as he ran a hand through his hair.

"I'm coming, Jesus fuck, chill out," he called bitterly.

Prying the door open, and expecting a pizza delivery boy and not a tall Russian male, America cocked his head to the side and stared blankly, "I thought you had business this entire week, until Sunday."

Russia shrugged, easily pushing past America with a listless smile and vacant gleam in his eyes, "I finished early."

America tugged at his hair, pulling painfully as he grit his teeth. "Great."

It was, in fact, not great. After leaving the hospital, he could only feel and numb and muted need to be alone. He had craved isolation from everyone, including Russia. Ushering the man out now, after he had flown all the way from Moscow, would have been callous and lead to an argument of some sort. Confrontation was something America didn't quite feel up to dealing with. Sighing in something akin to defeat, he shut the door with more force than necessary as he went back to the living room.

Apparently Russia wasted no time in getting comfortable. The man sat atop the mound of bedding, legs crossed, as he stared at the TV. Looking over his shoulder, assuring himself America hadn't bolted, Russia turned his attention back to the film playing after confirming America was still present within the apartment. He knew his presence would be unwanted.

Fighting the urge to shove Russia away from his mutely proclaimed 'comfy zone', America plopped down beside him and hugged a blanket close, reaching out to nurse the melting dairy treat once more. He smiled widely, stretching his face into a now foreign expression. They were going to watch movies with one another after agreeing to move ahead tentatively with an indefinable relationship; he had to put on a disguise. Sure, he wanted to something real and tangible to help raise him from this movie and sweets laden slump, but he knew nothing would come if he were a downer the entire time. Everyone had to think he was better, having fun: especially Russia.

His New York apartment was comfortable, familiar. It held memories of centuries past and a waft of history brought back old habits. When he had first moved into the quaint housing, the world had only seen America smiling. Only his pillows, in the darkness of twilight and the quiet din of a city that never truly slept, knew the truth, knew that he hid his sorrows in the woven cotton of a freshly washed casing.

Back then, everyone had called him happy go lucky even when his heart was dying inside, rotting and putrefying into something wholly wrong. A smile was just a frown turned upside down then, identical gestures only separated by a rotation of emotions. He did his happy go lucky so well then, even fooling himself at times. Those had been good times and the urge to rekindle those falsely joyful moments was too strong a desire to completely dispel or ignore.

"Did you see that explosion? Shit man, that was totally bomb," America chimed cheerfully, pointing to the screen with his spoon before jabbing the metal object back into the soupy mix of brownies, cream, and fudge.

"I could see the camera man's shadow," Russia supplied just as jovially.

They both laughed, both forced some semblance of fun to bubble up and leave their lips. Neither truly meant the hollow gesture.

Sitting silently from then on, the movie finished and America moved to put in another. The process repeated itself as they burned through _Clockwork Orange_, _Repo Men_, _Nemo_, and whole list of documentaries, short films, and TV series episodes. As the credits for _House_ began rolling, the sun having set long ago, America yawned dramatically as he raised his arms above his head.

"I'm really hungry," America groused, staring down pensively at the now empty container of ice cream. Rising slowly on creaking knees, he stretched once more, "I'm going to go down to this rad Chinese place nearby and pick us up some grub. Anything special you want?"

"No," Russia put in, moving to stand as well.

Laughing, America moved over and pushed Russia's shoulder, signaling that he could remain seated. "I'll be back in twenty max, just relax and don't go snooping while I'm gone. I'll know if you do, bub."

With that, the overly energetic nation hopped over to the door and toed on his shoes, grabbing his wallet from the stand beside the doorway, before he made a quick getaway. Shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his jeans, America stared at the flooring as stained carpeting gave way to cold concrete. It was a cold night, causing the man to shiver as he walked the all too familiar streets of New York.

Hushed voices sounded from an alleyway as he passed, only a bit of the conversation really making sense. What little he could decipher from the carefully concealed conversation made America pause in his walk and look up. Two men stood, shrouded in darkness, deep within the walls of the alley. One held out his hand, a bag clutched tightly, while the other offered a fistful of bills. The exchange was quick, practiced.

He felt like this was some test, a chance of fate to put his will on the stand. It was like a quiz he didn't know the answer to. Here was a dealer, of what he had no idea, pawning his product to needy users in some grimy concrete cell barely big enough for two men to walk side by side through. He knew he should keep walking, ignore it all, block it all, just _get away from the temptation_. It would be for the best.

Then reason walked out as a more terrifying creature took over his mind. Lounging around his apartment, alone, there had been no cause to put up a front. With Russia's arrival came that age old need to appear happy, carefree, and uninhibited. While watching those movies with Russia, shoulders bumping every so often, America had smiled till he felt his face would split and laughed until his throat felt raw. His back ached from forcefully holding a seemingly at ease and relaxed posture, stomach churning as the sugary sweet snack he ingested turned to acid.

The hours of pretending once more had been some of the most painful from the past month. Surviving for even another hour more seemed near impossible. A breakdown had been brewing within America and he could feel the newly created dam ready to burst. He had learned how to survive in that drug fueled haze, how to cope and deal with the world. Without it in his life, things had plummeted and all coherent thought and rationality tangled within one another and rendered each other useless. At least things had made sense before.

That was over though, wasn't it?

Why was he still thinking about it though?

"Hey, I wanna buy some," America called, pulling his hands from his pocket. With wallet in hand, he came into the veil of black and pulled free a few bills, holding them in the moonlight so both men could see his intentions.

One of the men moved swiftly, pulling a gun from his waistband, "The fuck you want, bro?"

"Whatever the fuck you're selling," America informed him. His voice was flat, lifeless. A drive more animal than human rose up and took another step forward, holding out the money. "Whatever you're selling and however much this will get me."

The money was taken from his hand swiftly. The dealer looked through the bills while his patron kept the gun aimed at America's head. In the darkness, America saw the whites of the dealer's eyes as he lifted his gaze from the cash to the nation standing before him. One hand reached painfully slow into the pocket of his coat. A bag was tossed America's way, the nation catching it easily as a grimace took over his features.

"The fuck is that look for?" the dealer asked, hostile.

America shrugged, "I'm just happy."

The men shot one another dubious looks before they took their hasty retreat, fleeing from America and leaving the man to kneel and pick up the remains of a novel from the ground. Unthinkingly, America opened the bag and spread the white powder onto the book, using his fingers to form lines before taking out his wallet once more. Rolling up a twenty, he put the bill to the book and nose to the bill before he inhaled sharply, moving in a smooth line before repeating the action over and over again till he was left with nothing but an ache in his nasal cavity and the overwhelming feeling of failure.

On the way back home, officially out of money for any sort of food, the effects of whatever he had taken began to kick in. At first, he began to stagger and gait became unsteady. When he opened his mouth to curse, the words came out slurred. Colors swirled like a pool of water colors, mixing into beautiful shades and patterns as he stared open mouthed at the New York streets. People became dogs and dogs became cacti. Nothing made sense but everything seemed too fresh. America was floating, detached from his physical body, and soaring high as a man that looked and talked like him stumbled through the fall night.

With a sort of amusement and glee, he watched the America look-a-like duck into another alley. He watched giddily, mouth stretching into a charade of happiness, as his impersonator found the corpse of a man long dead, shot in the head, and began cutting at the man's thigh with a hunting knife on a rung of his key chain.

"What are you doing, you sick fuck?" he laughed brightly.

"Getting dinner," he answered.

Another laugh from somewhere distant. Not here, not where he felt so entirely at ease. Here, wherever he was, there was laughter and true smiling. He looked down at the America impostor and the man looked back. They laughed as he tore away a slab of muscle from the dead man's leg. They smiled as he grabbed up an abandoned plastic bag and deposited the bloody mess into the bag, wiping the rest of the evidence onto his jeans. They walked unsteadily back to the apartment before flinging open the door and announcing their arrival loudly together.

Russia appeared from the living room, looking annoyed and about ready to bite out a cheerful insult and reprimand. The nation stopped as he eyed the bag. "America. . . What is that?"

The America-esque man tossed his head back and laughed, holding out his prize as he began to shake, "It's dinner! This dude was totally nice enough to give it to me."

"Not that he had much of a say in it, I guess," he said from above, laughing as well. They both smiled. "Food's food, right?"

"America, you are shaking," Russia cut in, raising his voice to be heard over the chorus of laughter. Concern laced his words. "What did you do?"

"I can't feel anything!" America cried exuberantly as he pulled his keys from his pockets, the metal dirtied by drying blood, as he flung them onto the floor. "I'm right as rain, good as can be, about ready to shit kittens and rainbows, man."

"I'm happy, happy, happy," he shouted.

The bag was flung to Russia. There was no attempt at catching it. The contents spilled out across the wood flooring, staining the dark panels black as a hunk of meat sat uselessly on the ground. America's double pouted, pointing to his now spoiled prize, "Hey! That was dinner!"

"America!"

The hand on his shoulder went unnoticed. He wasn't America anymore. There was no body keeping him tethered to reality as he soared and twisted and pulled against the reigns attempting to reel him in. He could fight here and fight he did. Lashing out and thrashing, he watched as his double was attacked with just as much desperation and fight from his opponent. Russia was trying to desperately to restrain his impersonator. He almost felt bad for the poor guy, though the empathy was lost when he felt disembodied arms wrap around his chest and pin his arms.

His body felt sluggish, like he was trying to swim through molasses and failing horribly. He couldn't break the grip holding him and began panicking as he watched his impersonator become trapped within Russia's embrace as well. There were words, someone speaking. Somewhere. He wasn't sure. Sense, sense, gone, here, there, no, down.

He watched in mute horror as Russia brought both himself and the America double down to the floor, one pressed tightly against the other's chest. Russia seemed to be holding on for dear life as he buried his face in the crook of the America double's neck, shielding his face as his arms tightened their hold. The double shook, unfeeling towards everything and trying in vain to free himself.

"Let me go!" they shouted.

"Stop, let go!" he screamed.

"You're so cold," Russia murmured.

He retreated within himself, fleeing the scene and leaving it behind. The memories were repressed, hidden somewhere deep within his consciousness as he went limp and willed himself to fly away. When he opened his eyes, a soft glow of sunlight came into the room, all pinks and golds and ambers and greens. He smiled and tipped his head back, laughing. They laughed. There was no more joy though, only cold paranoia and impersonal fear as he fought the urge to struggle once more. He put on his facade once more; they did. They had to protect their pride after all. It was all they had.

His smile was all he had anymore. His body had been stolen by some nameless body snatcher and affections whisked away to some far land for repair. He could see the little demons invading his formless body, stealing away emotions and memories as they gnawed on his flesh and made him squirm. There was screaming, his maybe. Cries for help, get them off, _get them off_. Help, _helpwhystopnohelp_.

Help.

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**A/N: Edited by the holy!awesome Shatterdoll. She's my secret boo - shhh, don't tell her. The song is Happy Go Lucky by Steps and you have no idea how I rushed this chapter. Seriously, that song makes me wanna puke rainbows and shit fairies. It's so sweet sounding; it'll rot your teeth. Enjoy, y/y? Thought so. Anyway, I don't have much to say other than PCP is probably one of the worst drugs anyone could take since, oh, _ever_. Angel Dust is in a league of it's own in the underworld of illegal substances. Read, review, don't eat people (it's generally frowned upon after all).**


	14. The Kill

America's head pounded as he lazily rolled over. Mornings be damned; they weren't his thing. Sunlight streamed in from the window, the glow unwanted as America silently cursed the sun and pleaded for it to set quickly already. His body wasn't prepared to be amongst the living once more. He slept the sleep of the dead and, by the way his bones creaked and tendons twitched, his living form wasn't quite ready to join the leagues of the conscious either. Something was insistently stabbing at his arm, the soft spot between his shoulder and elbow, so persistently and _painfully_ he couldn't help but blearily blink and stare at some shifting shape not two feet from him.

His gaze turned to the offending appendage jabbing at his flesh, glaring softly as the image blurred before coming into focus. An arm, a Russia, his house. _Oh, shit._

"Morning," he groaned, rolling over. Turn his back to the world and nothing mattered. Ignorance was bliss. _If I can't see him, he isn't here and it never happened. _"Get me coffee."

He yanked the blanket up, over his arms and over his nose and nearly covering his eyes as he stared at the wall before him. Not the most pleasant of sights to gaze at, but his mind was already buzzing with a constant white noise of distorted thoughts, battling against one another for supremacy and the right to be heard. America didn't want to listen, forced himself not to, but he'd found running from himself was a fruitless effort. It brought nothing by self loathing and frustration.

Will break, currently breaking, had broken: he wasn't sure anymore. There was a distinct lack of self awareness, more so than usual. The urge to laugh tugged at him, took his lips and parted them. It shook his vocal cords until he buried his face in the blanket, smelling of plastic and grease and the scents of his bed fellows, and laughed until his throat felt raw and his body shook with an uncontrollable tremor. He wasn't even sure if Russia was still there but, so long as he laughed and didn't turn, it didn't matter.

What would Russia do anyway? Place a comforting hand perhaps, steal a quick kiss to his forehead or stroke the unwashed mat of hair atop his head? The images caused real laughter to bubble forth, a cascade of desperation and irritation he couldn't vent in any other way.

What if he just fell to the floor, unable to take _any_ of it anymore? What would Russia really do? America wasn't entirely certain and enjoyed the thrill of not knowing.

Bitterness wafted into the room as America heard a muted thunk through his laughter. So, Russia had left and had just come back: perfect. Lurching forward, America pitched himself from the bed, legs tangled in the sheets. The blanket fell on top of him once more, the pillow falling somewhere beside his head. He continued laughing, sides already aching.

Russia knelt beside the young nation, leaning over him with one hand braced on the edge of his bed. A ghost of a smile situated itself on his lips as he stared irritably at America, voice taunt like a cocked bow, "If this is a ploy for attention, America, you certainly have it. You will stop making a fool of yourself now, _da_?"

America almost wanted to heed Russia's barely veiled command: _almost_. Not enough though as he unfurled from the ball like position he had adopted during his short descent from the bed to the floor. His hand shot out, catching Russia's shoulder and holding the material in a white knuckled grip. The other came out from the folds of the blanket, grabbing the others scarf and yanking him down. Russia tumbled, balance thoroughly shredded as his lips met America's in a clash of teeth and tongue as the nation attempted to devour his mouth while he flailed for some sort of purchase which he could use to push himself away with.

He almost felt like a toy as America allowed him enough leeway to grab hold of the mattress edge once more and pull away. With brow cocked and smirk playing across his lips, America breathed, "Come break me down."

_Bury me, bury me, Russia. Do it._

"I am finished with you," Russia replied coldly, attempting to yank himself free from America's hold.

The man beneath him was having none of it, keeping Russia locked in place and at the mercy of where he would direct the man's body if he so chose to do so. Some times, America loathed his strength. It caused nothing but problems in sickly sweet moments of indulgence. Other times, the ability came in handy. This was one such occasion where America didn't feel the need to constantly control the over abundance of power coursing through him. He pulled Russia down once more, kissing and receiving no response. A growl of frustration ripped through his throat.

America began to wonder, as he twisted his hips to meet Russia's groin. Another "what if" in a sea of I don't knows and how and why, and a thousand other meaningless questions that would never receive an answer, and that was just fine with him. But, he pondered as he began rolling his hips, providing friction for both he and his apparently unwilling partner, what if their positions were switched? What if he was the one without control, blindly striking at anything in an attempt to worm away from wandering hands and hungry, half lidded gazes? Begging and begging for Russia to stop, stop, he didn't _want_ this, he wanted to _leave_ but having his words fall on deaf ears.

_What would you do?_

Loosening his grip once more, America watched with dull fascination as Russia's head shot up, body attempting to twist up and away from America's insistent actions. When the effort proved itself to be futile, anger bubbled up and began to awaken a portion of himself that Russia had learned to control, if only somewhat. Uncomfortable with his sudden lack of leverage and livid at his own weakness and inability to break free, Russia turned a scathing glare America's way, corners of his mouth twitching upward in a mockery of pleasantry.

He was bitter and tired, unused to caring and unwilling to endure it any longer.

"You said you wanted more. So what are you waiting for, America?" Russia calmly questioned, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. "I'm not running from you. It is you who is running from me."

America stilled, becoming a deer as the rain began to pour. Unable to move, too stunned to jump and run and hide. Tension began to build, flooding his veins and turning flesh to stone. Gradually, the joints of his fingers began to pop as he released both Russia's coat and scarf. Staring unseeingly, America gazed up at Russia, already off in some far away place. He became a child in that moment, wide eyed and frightened and so very _confused_. It was painful to watch the cogs attempting to turn, the gears frozen and no answer coming forth as America struggled with himself to grip the situation and find some sort of concrete hold in a world of glass.

There was no need for Russia to break him, metaphorically or literally. Any semblance of wholeness America once possessed had been thoroughly shattered by the young nations own hands. He'd buried himself beneath six feet of lies and reassurances and repressed memories of times not far off and people now so, so, so far in the distance. Russia had said he was finished with him and America hadn't completely understood and, even now, as he watched Russia stand tall while he pushed at the floor and scrambled to his feet, he couldn't grasp the meaning. They hadn't been literal, couldn't have been literal, but the message buried within was lost on America.

Numbness became familiar over the years for America. He gradually cared less and grew impartial to things he knew, at one time, would have sparked something within him: determination, indignation, joy, _anything_. Lately, there had been nothing. So long as everything meant nothing then it soon became meaningless, lost in the pages of history and the memories of those once there until they passed. He didn't care now, not anymore even if he ever did, and so he was numb. When unfeeling, one cannot feel enjoyment of the sensation but, faintly, America thought he could feel a fluttering in his stomach as he calmly approached the windowsill and sat, facing the glass and staring out.

He looked himself in the eyes, scowl soon taking over his features. _You're killing me. I'm killing me and this is pointless to think about and-_

All he ever wanted was himself, his identity. Vaguely, through a haze of centuries past, he could recall someone else entirely that had had his eyes, his hair, his everything. Wind and sun and water and dirt and gravel and sand and trees and flowers, all the things he wished he could once more bleed into. He wanted to become the roots once more, take on the form of a wolf and cross endless forests of pine and birch and oak, until his feet ached and he was forced to rest under a blanket of stars. Something had happened though and the title of America slipped into his hands. Who he was slipped away. He hadn't been able to hold on to who he was, instead became what others wanted, and lost himself, lost _everything_.

Someone else entirely took the place of a once nameless spirit that roamed freely across a land yet unexplored. When he realized the loss of what he had been, it was already too late. Try as America had, and try he desperately did, Arthur could surely attest to that, he was unable to capture what had once been. The finality of it had nearly driven him mad.

Now, though, now he knew who he is really was inside. He had finally found himself and it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a resounding ache in his chest. The chance to fight for who he was had long passed and who he really was began to eat away at the will to carry on as if everything was alright. Perhaps that's when he began the free fall. America couldn't be sure. Nothing was sure anymore. Simplicity long ago fell to the wayside as intricacy took its place and the once distinct lines of right and wrong smeared into an imperceptible field of gray. Black and white no longer existed, only a flat field of shifting grays, steel and iron and concrete and smog and smoke.

Arms wrapped around his waist and unconsciously he scooted up the wide expanse of the wood sill, making room for the body that settled in behind him. Something in his face must have given his musings away. That or, and America certainly did entertain the thought, Russia had implanted some sort of mind reading device in his skull.

Barely breathing and looking out at a world he didn't recognize any longer, America leaned his back against Russia, finding the man to be shirtless, flesh connected with flesh. He went completely limp as Russia's hand snuck up the hem of his shirt, calloused fingers dancing across the sensitive skin of his belly. The touch was not gentle or caring or loving. The blunt edges of Russia's nails bit into his sides and dragged across his abdomen, roughly marking him and bringing his consciousness back to the present. Another hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, feeling and coaxing in an impersonal fashion.

"Ah," America breathed, cocking his head to the side as he buried his face in the crook of Russia's shoulder in order to stifle any other unwanted noise from pouring out. It had been too long since he indulged his more primal of needs.

He had already broken himself but, maybe, Russia could completely smother the remains, burying him beneath so much nameless debris that he would eventually come back to himself. Push far enough, fall deep enough, complete the cycle and once more, maybe, maybe, _maybe_, he could return to the beginning and assume his position as sister to the sun, brother to the wind, and child of the land. He was finished with himself, wanting not only who he was but perhaps someone entirely different.

Hand shaking, America wriggled in Russia's grasp and scooted forward. With fingers trembling, from anticipation he would always insist, he worked at Russia's pants in an attempt to free the growing bulge pressing into his back. Success did not come immediately and America grit his teeth, attempting to control the spastic movements of his hands. Finally, a snap sounded through the still air of America's bedroom and he knew his prize was close at hand. Reaching into Russia's pants, he freed the man's obvious arousal and delivered a few teasing strokes.

Using the wall as leverage, he pushed himself flush against Russia's chest and lifted himself up. His head turned, looking at Russia only to see Russia looking at him. You're killing me, one said. All I wanted was you, another said. Neither could tell who meant what and both agreed to disregard whatever wordless conversation had just passed between them as America carefully lower himself down.

It burned and it ached, sending jolts of pain reverberating up and down his spine until he eyes screwed shut and he could only lower himself further and further until there was no where else to go. Russia's arms came around his middle once more, silently requesting that America stay still if only for the moment and allow them both a moment to adjust. The sensations were overpowering, transcending reality and lifting them up only to let them tumble back down into flesh and bone and blood and tissue. From angels to demons to humans again and again and again.

For once, America agreed to the request and, with one hand pressing against the glass and the other gripping Russia's knee, he breathed, in out in out, until he lifted his hips. It hurt. America had been a part of wars before, choosing to run with his men through the forests of France and dunes of Iraq. There had been pain those times, from bullets and bombs and the sweltering heat of Vietnam's summers, and the unforgiving cold of Yugoslavia's winter. This, this intimate sort of agony took on an entirely different porn. It pierced deeper than his earthly body and struck a cord somewhere that wasn't here.

"_More_," America demanded of Russia, of himself, as he lost rhythm and slammed his body down. The hands on his hips assisted in launching him upward as Russia's hips snapped up, attempting to keep in time with some beat America had yet to hear.

Russia complied with the request, taking whatever could have been confused as love making or human and twisting it into something purely animal and wholly decadent. America wasn't ready for anything deeper than the connection of need and need. Russia knew this and, though he so sorely wished to disobey and thoroughly shatter America by forcing tenderness upon the nation, complied. An unnameable power had been put into his hands, not meant to be used but rather to test.

He could hardly control himself any long as coherent thought fled. Russia was rutting against him like a dog in heat and America gladly reciprocated the gesture, moving clumsily as his body thrummed with a need for release. No more waiting. He slammed his body back down, completely sheathing Russia within his body, before he was hoisted up once more only to repeat the action. No more running. Pressing his back to Russia's chest, America raked his teeth across Russia's throat, grazing the man's pulse and biting into his flesh.

_What if - what if - what if - what if -_

The end came too soon for America as he sunk down once more and tore into Russia's shoulder, all teeth and instinct, to stifle his scream. A wave of heat consumed him, stole his vision away, and the world became entirely silent as he was pulled up and forcefully yanked back down by a bruising grip on the junction of his pelvis and thigh over and over and over again until Russia began fighting for air and pressed his face into America's shoulder blade, biting through his lip to keep quiet as he tumbled over the edge.

Sighing and opening his eyes, belatedly realizing he had closed them, America stared out the window and pushed the what ifs from his mind. There would be time later to think on those. For now, with Russia still buried within him and his mind blissfully at rest, America could lounge against Russia, and think of nothing and pray Russia didn't plan on moving anytime soon because he certainly wasn't.

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**A/N: . . . Don't kill me. Please. It SAYS, right on my profile, that I'll still be updating shit. It's just gonna be, you know. So incredibly slow I may as well not even bother but I'm stubborn and going to anyway. So, don't throttle me. I am trying. Drama of all ridiculous sorts and classes have been kicking my ass into submission despite my best efforts to ward both off. Kinda hard when you're being gang raped by drama and school. Yeeeep. Anyway, here ya go. I got busy, wrote it. My beta got busy, a friend edited it. I cannot for the life of me remember her username. (Forgive me, sweetie. orz) The song is The Kill by 30 Seconds to Mars. There's poorly written smut. Uh, read, review, I should stop babbling.**


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